


Duplicity

by Emmithar



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Blessed Are The Peacemakers, Hurt Arthur Morgan, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:34:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25344763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmithar/pseuds/Emmithar
Summary: “What are we doing here, Colm?” Dutch wondered quietly,“Is this thing over?”The conversation was going nowhere. They had exchanged false pleasantries. Had exchanged some jibes. He had apologized for Colm's brother, and Colm had...well he certainly had not apologized for Annabel. He seemed indifferent, almost bored to be here. So why were they here?---A different take on the mission 'Blessed are the Peacemakers'. Both Dutch and Arthur are captured by Colm, and must find a way to escape before they're handed over to the  law.
Comments: 54
Kudos: 129





	1. Betrayal

**Author's Note:**

> I always suspected that Micah was behind Arthur's kidnapping, an attempt to get rid of the one major obstacle in getting close to Dutch. This is just a little idea that's been entertaining me, so I decided to share. Enjoy!

They had been friends once. Well, maybe friends wasn't quite the right word. Acquaintances was more like it. They tolerated one another, even helped each other out on more than one occasion. Typically though they did their best to avoid one another, an uneasy dance to avoid overstepping any boundaries. Colm had become more aggressive, had started crossing lines that Dutch wanted no part of. Then things had come a head when Dutch had killed his brother.

And Colm had retaliated by killing Annabel. Things were never the same after that; how could they be? A blood feud had started. Had continued to grow. Would continue to grow, worsening things, unless they did something. That was why he was here now. That was why he had agreed to this insane meeting. He had hoped something would come out of it. Yet that seemed to not be happening.

“What are we doing here, Colm?” Dutch wondered quietly,“Is this thing over?”

The conversation was going nowhere. They had exchanged false pleasantries. Had exchanged some jibes. He had apologized for Colm's brother, and Colm had...well he certainly had not apologized for Annabel. He seemed indifferent, almost bored to be here. So why were they here? Heat from the Pinkertons breathing down both their backs had certainly complicated matters. Maybe they stood a chance if they both forgot about each other and fought their own battles. Being forced here, having to apologize, to pretend to be amiable. It was uncomfortable, yes, but he could deal with a bit of discomfort if it meant ending all this nonsense.

Still, part of him knew, deep down, that something wasn't right. After all, Dutch had known Colm for far too long. Knew that it wasn't like Colm to forgive and forget. He watched as the man smiled, a wicked grin splitting his face, but silent still, not answering his question.

Then he heard the gunfire. It was a single shot, but it hadn't come from him, nor had it come from Colm. It had been further away. Up on the ridge where Arthur was supposed to be watching over them. Instinct had kicked in and Dutch found himself with his gun out, trained on the man in front of him, heart pounding.

Colm and his men had done the same. There were three guns pointing at him in return, but Dutch wasn't too worried. Micah was by his side after all. He felt a slight twinge of apprehension. It had been a single shot, but no bullets had come their way. So what had Arthur been shooting at? Or had he been the one shot? The thought sent a shiver down his spine.

Colm was grinning; the man seemed to be amused by the whole ordeal. “Now now, there's no need for any of that. After all, you're worth more alive than dead.” So a trap it was; how original.

“You let us go, Colm,” Dutch tried to bargain. “I have men watching; you try anything, they'll kill you.”

He could probably take him out, his finger was already resting on the trigger. Between he and Micah they could take out two, maybe all three of them, but that was being overly optimistic; the best way out of this was a bluff, and hoping against all odds that Colm wouldn't see through it. Colm was grinning still, shifting his gaze away from him.

“Morgan up on the ridge?”

“Of course,” Micah answered, and Dutch felt his blood run cold. “Just like I promised.”

“Any one else?”

“Just us,” he reassured Colm. Dutch risked a glance over to where Micah was standing. The man had his gun out as well, but it was trained on him, not Colm. He could feel the anger surge, finger tightening around the trigger, determined to put a bullet in at least one of these bastards. Yet somehow he resisted. Resisted because he knew it'd accomplish nothing.

“Care to explain yourself?” he all but spat out. Damn decorum and any other pretenses. He had new worries now; namely how he was going to get out of this. And a second, new pressing fear racing through his veins. Arthur...was he still alive? If he was he would have already opened fire on Colm. So what had happened? Had he been taken? Or had they simply gunned him down?

“Nothing personal, boss,” Micah was acting as though he was reassuring him. “Just got a better offer is all.”

“I took you in,” Dutch all but spat out, “I cared for you...and this is how you repay me?”

“And I saved your life,” Micah reminded him, “And how did you repay that? By dragging me deeper into this shit, all work and no reward?”

“We were getting close to a take,” Dutch growled. They had been working hard, playing the Grays and the Braithwaites against one another. Hosea reckoned they were close to making a score.

“We had a take in Blackwater,” Micah reminded him. “You should have let me go for the money. And yet you refused to share that small piece of information...”

“ _You don't be telling him anything,”_ he remembered Arthur's words. The warning that had been there. He had reassured Arthur he wasn't that stupid. Yet he hadn't shared that information with Micah not because he didn't trust him, but because he didn't want the man to be killed. It was a fool's errand, trying to go back for it. 

“You want that money?” Dutch wondered quietly, finger still toying with the trigger, “help me get out of here, and then we'll talk.” Another bluff, but Dutch had relied on his fair share of bluffs in the past with reasonable success.

“Oh you'll talk,” Colm smirked, “You see, we get the money from your bounty, the take from Blackwater, and then we leave this place. You fancy Mexico, Mr. Bell?”

“Sounds good, boss,” Micah nodded towards him.

“Seems not all your gang is loyal, are they now?” Colm laughed. “Put your gun down, come quietly, and I promise I won't kill your boy up there. If he's still alive, that is.” What a reasonable offer, he thought grimly.

For a moment he didn't move, every outcome racing through his mind. He could fire on them, maybe kill Colm, but then they would shoot him dead here, and simply take a loss on the bounty. Hell they could shoot him without killing him, leave him injured or crippled, take him in like that. The law wouldn't care, the would hang him all the same, there was no doubt about that. But it would take time, they would want everyone to know about his capture. Make a display out of it.

And Arthur...there was no telling what state the man was in. No telling if he was even still alive. He assumed that the man was. They were both worth more alive than dead after all. Colm wouldn't miss the opportunity to pull as much money from this as he could. So for now, what he truly needed, was time.

Hosea and the others knew about the meeting, would no doubt come looking for them soon. He just had to hang on until then. If there was any hope out of this it would come later, and he needed to be unscathed. So Dutch did something he never thought he would ever do. He surrendered.

* * *

Reality came slowly. He could feel a sharp, fierce pounding in his head, almost bad enough that he thought it was better to just go back to sleep. What had happened? Had he drank too much again? Visions of Valentine, of Lenny, of the cell they both woke up in floating through his head. But no...this wasn't any cell. He's flat out on some grass, the blades tickling his nose, leaving wet traces on his cheek as he moved.

He risked opening his eyes, blinking rapidly in feeble attempt to chase away the blurriness. He could hear voices swirling around him, voices he didn't recognize, try as he might. With some effort he manged to lift his head, a muffled groan escaping his lips as he tried his best to ignore the pain.

“I don't know, Colm's got a sense.”

Colm...he knew Colm, knew he was nothing but trouble. Whenever that man was involved it was nothing good. He lay back down, wincing at the pain.

“Handing them over to the law? It's...I don't know, strange times.”

A different voice, a hint of hesitation there. Arthur lifted his head again, trying to focus, memory slowly coming back to him. The meeting with Colm, watching over Dutch and Micah, the shuffling of feet behind him...shit. Well things could have gone better. Now he could see them, a group of men, sitting off to one side. They seemed to be watching something...

“They killed Seamus, fuck the whole lot of them,” an angry snarl this time.

“With these two, Colm's right, we can draw them all back.”

Two? What did he mean by that? Arthur winced, shifting in the grass. His hands were bound in front of him, but it felt like his legs were free. Maybe, just maybe he could get away without them noticing. Quickly he scanned the area, starting to move, only to stop a moment later as he spotted the other man. Dutch. The other man was bound to a tree, a neckerchief tied in a makeshift gag about his head.

Dutch is watching him, eyes narrowed, flicking between him and the O'driscolls that were sitting but a few feet away. Arthur followed his gaze, watching them as well. They didn't seem to notice that he was awake, carrying on the conversation still. Best he get moving then.

He bit back a groan as he forced himself to his knees. His head was spinning still, the ground below him tilting dangerously. Almost comically, as though he was drunk. Arthur almost wished he was. He'd repeat that day with Lenny anytime as opposed to doing this.

He did his best to ignore it, forcing himself onward. He shuffled forward slowly, more like a crawl, but eventually he reached Dutch's side, leaning himself against the tree for support. Being this close now he could actually take in the other man's appearance, could see the bruises on his face. Seemed like they hadn't gone easy on him either. He reached up with bound hands, fingers working at the gag, pulling it free.

“Get these ropes off me,” Dutch whispered hurriedly. He was pulling at them, twisting his wrists, trying to loosen them, and doing anything but. Arthur nodded, hands falling to where the knot was, starting to pick at it.

“They're escaping!”

The cry made him jolt, turning in time to see the men clambering to their feet. Shit, he needed to move. He could come back for Dutch later, but first he needed to get away. He pushed himself to his feet, stumbling, the ground spinning under him as his head swam. Arthur did his best to ignore it, kept pushing himself forward. And then something hit his leg, dropping him there. Had he been shot?

“Did I kill you?” one of the bastards wanted to know, flipping him over on his back.

Arthur bit back a groan, wincing. “Not yet...”

There's three men standing above him, all laughing. At least they seemed to be enjoying themselves. He could feel the barrel of the gun pressing on his shoulder, pinning him to the ground.

“No, of course not,” the one man holding the gun says, mirth in his voice. “Not yet...but I will.”

There's a sudden explosion, a hot arch of pain...and then darkness.

* * *

They had shot him. They had fucking shot him...oh Arthur. For a moment he couldn't breathe, heart pounding in his chest, threatening to break out at any moment. Arthur...his son...he was...no, Dutch couldn't even think the words, couldn't come to accept it.

“What the hell was that, Aedan?” one of the men practically cursed, ripping the gun from his hands. “We was supposed to keep them alive.”

“He ain't dead,” Aedan spat back, kicking Arthur's prone form with the toe of his boot.

He wasn't dead? Dutch let out a breath, eyes focused on where Arthur lay, trying to see around the group that had formed around him. The hope there was faint, but it was all he had.

“Yeah, well he's going to be if you keep it up,” the first man growled. “I ain't gonna save your ass from Colm, you hear?

“Yeah, I hear,” Aedan waved a hand, letting out a scoff. “You can't tell me that none of you wanted to do that? Morgan's a fuckin' right bastard. He killed Donal,” he motioned hastily at the corpse that was to the side. So that must have been the gunshot he heard earlier, Dutch thought bitterly. At least Arthur had taken one of the bastards down.

“Donal was a fool,” the first man spat out, “Now Colm's got a plan, and you don't go messin' with that. Get him on a horse, we need to move out before someone starts poking around.”

He was still alive...what sweet relief. Short lived as it were. Dutch watched as they manhandled him, dragging him over to where the horses were kept. This now marked the second time he was sure Arthur had been killed.

The first was when he was still with Colm. The earlier gunfire still echoing in his mind. Had been certain the man had been gunned down while keep watch. Dutch had surrendered, outmatched and with nowhere to go it wasn't like had much other choice. It was despicable, a failure on his part. He should have sensed the trap from a mile away. But he hadn't counted on Micah being a traitor...

They had all but pounced on him when he lowered his gun. He had taken a knee to a gut, a few solid punches to the face as they forced him down, securing his hands behind his back. Colm had taken the opportunity to pistol whip a few times, leaving him tasting blood, stars dancing before his eyes. How he managed not to pass out was a mystery to him.

“ _I think I rather enjoy you like this,” Colm had laughed, holstering his weapon. “Take up him up with the other; Mr. Bell and I have some business to attend to.”_

Then he had been unceremoniously dragged away, up into some trees. Had seen the corpse first, and then there was Arthur, the man sprawled out on the ground not too far away, alive but unmoving, arms bound and a rough sack tied about his head so that only his face was showing. Even from here he had seen the blood, the tint of red that shown through. They must have hit him good.

Dutch found himself bound him to a tree, gagged soon after to keep him quiet. He had taken a moment to rest his pounding head, hands feebly trying to free himself from his bonds. What a mess they were in. And worse, what plans were Colm and Micah getting up to? Was Micah going to lead them back to camp, ambush the rest of the gang? He had to get out of here, had to get back to warn them, but how? He wasn't going anywhere like this. Then the faintest hope had returned when he saw Arthur moving, watched as the man staggered over towards him. He was clearly hurting and thoroughly dazed but determined. Stubborn as always.

Then he had been spotted, and he had tried to run. Oh Arthur...even now Dutch felt sick, the memory of seeing the group pounce on him, seeing the gun fire...he glanced up as the men came back for him now. Arthur had been secured on the back of the horse, the man dubbed as Aedan having mounted, waiting for his companions.

“You give us no trouble now,” one of them warned, gun out and ready. “Colm wants the both you alive, but plans can change.”

The warning was clear. If he didn't pay the price than Arthur certainly would. Already had, as far as he was concerned. The man might be alive for the moment, but there was no telling the amount of damage that gunshot had done. And Dutch doubted the men would practice any restraint.

He was cut from the tree, hands still secured behind him as he was pulled to his feet and all but marched over to a waiting horse. They hefted him over, a grunt escaping him as he landed on his stomach, protesting as the gag was tightened once more. How dignified...

It was the last coherent thought he had, pain exploding in his head just then. The ground before him wavered, spinning as he closed his eyes with a groan. There was another blow to the back of his head, and everything went dark.


	2. An Offer He Must Refuse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left a review! Onto the next chapter in which Dutch and Colm have a little bit of a longer chat...

* * *

He didn't remember much. Had come to once or twice, blinking as sunlight pierced his vision. It was hard to breath, situated as he was, his head pounding something fierce. They were following a river at one point, he noted. Had blacked out shortly after. Night was starting to fall when he woke next, could hear orders being given. 

They were at a cabin, surrounded by woods. “Put their things over there,” he could hear the voice. Couldn't place it. Didn't recognize it. Dutch lifted his head wearily, seeing one of the men motion to the side. Saw the shack only briefly. He couldn't hold his head up anymore, letting it drop against the horse's flank. 

A wave of dizziness hit him, almost made his sick as he was pulled down. Would have collapsed if it were not for the person holding him up. Curses shouted into his ear as he was marched forward, and it took everything in his power to keep one foot in front of the other. The door the cellar was thrown open and he was taken down the stairs. Dark and dank, musty smells of earth, of something heavier assaulting his nose as he was all but forced down. Heart racing, wondering what was going to happen once they reached the bottom. Then he felt his heart stop, reality hitting him all the much harder at the sight in front of him.

Arthur had already been taken down here, had been stripped down to his union suit, and was hanging by his feet from the ceiling. Like some damn animal waiting to be butchered. He felt his anger surge, followed soon after by dread. There were no signs of life from the man, and for a fleeting moment Dutch was certain he was dead. Maybe that had been their intention all along. But no...he could hear it now, the stunted breaths, could see the blood dripping from his shoulder and onto the ground, could see his face tighten in a grimace, indicating the man was on the verge of consciousness, no doubt attempting to clamber to wakefulness. Still he hung limply, fingers mere inches from the ground. 

Dutch was shoved forward then, pushed towards a chair at the end of the room, his arms and legs roughly maneuvered into position and tied once more to ensure he would be going nowhere. There were a few laughs, mock reassurances to enjoy his stay as they left. Dutch swallowed around the gag, taking a moment to get himself under control. A feeble attempt to ease the pounding in his own head. A few breaths is all he allowed himself, raising his head to scope out his surroundings. 

The cellar wasn't very big. A table ran the length of the room, a single candle burning the only source of light. It wasn't very bright, but certainly enough to see by. Arthur hung near the table, almost directly next to the wall. Across from him were the stairs, the route to freedom. What a laughable concept. They may as well have nooses around their necks as it was. They may actually have fared better if that were the case.

He looked up, the sound of footsteps approaching. He wasn't surprised to see Colm, the man stopping in front of Arthur, observing the other man for a time. Dutch growled from behind his gag, watching as Colm reached out, grabbing Arthur by one of his legs, shaking him.

“You awake, sunshine?” he laughed, voice falling into spurious concern when the only response that came was a muted groan. “Guess not. Seems like Morgan's not as tough as he thinks he is.”

Dutch scowled. He wanted to beat the man, to tie him down, blast him with gunfire and see how he fared. Wanted to strangle the bastard right where he stood. As it was all he could do was watch, pray that the man wouldn't cause any further harm towards Arthur. This was not his fight; no, this feud was between him and Colm.

Thankfully Colm didn't seem interested in beating on an unresponsive man. No, he had left Arthur's side, had come up to him, leaning against the table with his arms crossed. He looked even more foreboding in the dim light.

“I must say, old friend, it's so nice of you to come visit me at my humble abode. I do hope you are enjoying your accommodations,” the man swept a hand out, glancing around the place. He paused just then, bringing a hand up to cup his ear, pretending to be surprised. “What's that? I can't hear you, you need to speak up.”

Dutch didn't attempt to entertain him. Simply sat back in the chair, leveling his gaze on him. It would be a lie to say he wasn't afraid, but he was going to do his damnedest to not show it. He would rather die than give Colm any of that satisfaction.

The man laughed, reaching out just then, pulling the gag free with a soft apology. The gesture almost seemed kind and caring, but Dutch knew the man had other motives than cordiality. There was something the man wanted that required his ability to speak. Dutch didn't respond at first, simply opening and closing his mouth a few times, trying to work the stiffness out of it. Damn he was sore, knew his face was swollen on one side, could feel the skin taut and tight up near his eye.

“What a pleasure to see you again so soon,” he answered only when he was sure his voice wouldn't break. A low tone, pretending to be bored. “Next time, why don't you allow me to make the arrangements? Could find a place that's less melancholy.”

“I never tire of your charisma,” Colm grinned, “something I always enjoyed about you.”

“What do we do now, Colm?” Dutch ignored the taunt. Normally words were his forte, had gotten him out of numerous situations. Yet he knew he could talk Colm to the end of eternity, and it would change nothing. Best to find out what was in store for them, and then make a plan, get the hell out of here. 

“Got some business to take care of,” the man shrugged, “I'd say it doesn't involve you...but really it does. You made a mess in Blackwater, got some real heat on you this time. A pretty price on your head.”

He knew that already. There had been a price on his head for the last thirteen years. It had only grown since Blackwater, and was the very reason they had come this far south, an attempt to escape the noose. He should have just kept running, Dutch realized bleakly. Meeting with Colm certainly had done him no favors. He should have never entertained the idea of meeting him. 

“They want you, Dutch, oh do they ever want you,” Colm laughed. “My boys and I, we went to town. Spoke to the law...they'll be here soon enough. They'll take you and Morgan in, we'll collect the bounties, and we'll disappear after that.”

“They'll take you too,” Dutch pointed out. He was doubtful the law would just let him walk. Why would they? They had been after Colm for years. If it weren't the Blackwater mess, Dutch suspected Colm's price would be higher than his. The man was ruthless, killing without digression. 

“You let us go now, we'll go our separate ways, pretend this never happened. Otherwise the only way I see this ending is with all three of us in a noose.” That was a lie. Dutch intended to kill him regardless, and Colm probably knew that. He hated the fact the man knew him so well. It took away almost all the advantages he had. 

“Oh no,” the man shook his head, “You see, you are my immunity. I hand you over, they let me go. I promise to be a good boy, disappear with the money. Head to Mexico, a whole new land of opportunity.”

“Sounds like a bit of a dream,” Dutch mused. But he also knew the reality of trying to disappear to a new country. Things were never that easy. “You won't get there on that kind of money.”

“Course not,” Colm laughed, crouching down near him. “But I have a plan for that.” 

He should have expected the blow. It caught him unaware, a fist deep in his stomach, stealing the air from his lungs. Dutch hunched over as far as his bonds would allow, trying to breathe, to ignore the pain in his gut. 

Colm let out a laugh and stood, pacing to the other side of the room, turning back to him as he stopped. He seemed to be thinking.

“You know, your man, Mr. Bell?” he said suddenly, “he's got ambition.”

“And he'll betray you, just like he did me,” Dutch ground out through the pain. Once a traitor, always a traitor. You couldn't change nature. 

“Ah, maybe,” Colm waved it off as it were no big deal. “He wouldn't be the first. Speaking of traitors, I have a special surprise for that Duffy boy when we meet again. I won't spoil anything, but the boy is going to wish you killed him by the time I'm through.”

Dutch's gaze darkened, biting back a snarl. Kieran might have been and O'driscoll once, but he was one of his men now, and heaven helped him they protected their own. His men were not expendable like Colm's were. Colm must have seen the look on his face because he laughed just then, coming back over. 

“You were always soft, Dutch,” he smirked, leaning against the table. “At any rate, Bell told me all about what happened on that ferry. It was a right old disaster, and that poor girl...” Colm shook his head, hand pressed to his chest as he feigned sympathy. 

It bothered him, more than he would admit. Heidi had been innocent; there was no reason she had to die. He had lost himself at that moment, a dark part of himself that he didn't know existed had emerged, had taken over. Micah at his side, counseling...no urging him, that it had been the only way. Maybe the man had been right, that they would all be dead if he hadn't taken such drastic actions. Sometimes innocents died...there wasn't much that could be done for it. But now, with light of Micah's betrayal, Dutch was no longer so certain. How much truth had the man uttered? Or had it all been lies from the start? 

“A shame,” Colm was talking again, voice sympathetic and almost convincing, if Dutch didn't know him any better. “All that work, the loss of life, all for nothing...but wait...according to Bell...you made it off the ferry with the money. A decent take, the way he tells it. Then you lot were in such a hurry, you left it all behind. What a shame.”

That they had. Dutch had barely had the time to bury it in an unmarked grave before the law was all but breathing down their necks. They would go back for it one day, maybe far into the future when it was all but forgotten. For now, it was safe, and he intended to keep it that way. He had no intentions of sharing that location with Colm, God help him.

“That money is gone,” he skimmed around the truth. “It was lost in the chaos; there is nothing.”

“Oh come now,” Colm was tsking, shaking his head. “That's not what the paper says. They say it was never found...and I know you, Dutch van der Linde. I know you hid it. So why don't you save us the trouble, and tell me where?”

“And what makes you think that I would enlighten you?”

Colm laughed, crouching down near him, close enough that he could smell his sour breath. Dutch couldn't help but flinch as he pulled the knife free, the blade coming to rest against his throat. So was that it? Threaten to kill him unless he talked? The slightest bit of pressure was applied, a thin line of blood beading along the cut. Not deep, not deadly, as long as he stayed still. He swallowed. 

Colm was smiling, an infuriating grin as he pulled the knife away, holding it a few mere inches from his face. “I ain't gonna kill you, old friend” he reassured him. “No...I'll leave that to the law. And tomorrow at noon, they gonna be here. A whole army of them, just waiting. And then Bell will come to your valiant rescue, leading all your men in...”

And there it was. Dutch found himself swallowing. He always knew in the back of his mind that Colm would not just settle for the pair of them when they could have everyone. And now he had no doubt that Micah would happily lead everyone to ruin in order to make a profit. 

“But I'm a reasonable man. Tell you what; you tell me where the money is, and I'll stop that from happening. I mean, you and Morgan? You're still gonna die, but at least the rest of your gang will be spared.” The final offer. Their freedom, a chance at life, to escape the same fate he and Arthur were facing. 

It was a reasonable offer. After all, the money from Blackwater wasn't the only money in the world. They could always make more, find a way to survive. Hosea would take charge, find a way to keep them alive. Still Dutch was no fool. Knew that Colm was a slimy as he looked. He would take the information about Blackwater, and would still let the rest of his men fall into the trap. Colm was never a man of his word...

Colm let out a sigh when Dutch refused to answer, but the man hardly seemed regretful. No, surely he must have surmised what the response would be. 

“Tell you what, I'll give you some time to think things over, come and check on you in a bit, see if you've changed your mind.” Colm straightened up, reaching out to pat him on the cheek with blade, laughing as Dutch pulled away with a growl. The knife was sheathed, the man leaving with a mock curtsy and a wave, the cellar door closing with a thud a moment later. 

He wouldn't change his mind. Surely Colm had to know that he wouldn't. Dutch struggled, trying in vain to loosen the bonds. If he could get just one hand free he might be able to make some progress. Yet it was all for nothing; he wasn't going anywhere that was for certain. The bonds were well secured, and the only thing he was accomplishing was tearing the tender skin around his wrists. Could feel the blood running down his hands from his efforts. 

Dutch let out a bitter sigh. This place they were in? It was not a good place. A downright mess it was. And any potential rescue was going to end in disaster, of that he was certain. No, the best hope was for them to escape, and the sooner, the better. A monumental feat, seeing as he was tied, and Arthur shackled and unresponsive. 

More than once he heard Arthur stir, muffled groans escaping the man's lips. But he didn't answer when Dutch called out. Part of him worried; he wanted to hear his voice, a reassurance that he's still here with him. But to wake would be hell in itself given the amount of pain he would be in. 

He was so sure they had killed him. Had watched in horror as they pinned him down with the barrel of the gun. Had felt his stomach twist, his heart stop as the gun fired. That memory kept replaying in his mind despite his best attempts to push it away. Arthur had looked dead...even with the bastard reassuring everyone the man was still alive Dutch had doubted...

Arthur hadn't been a threat then. He had been unarmed, had been bound, beaten. There was no reason for them to do that other than their sick pleasure. They had enjoyed it, had laughed and ridiculed the man. Eventually they had dragged his limp body away, stowed him on the back of the horse. Dutch had followed soon after, had been knocked out. He hadn't seen much of anything after that.

He grimaced as the rope bit into tender flesh as he moved. He still hadn't given up, was determined not to. If he gave in now then there really was no hope for them. Time was ticking, and would run out soon enough. They had to get out of here, if not for their sake, for the rest of their family. 


	3. Colm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who reviewed! I love seeing your thoughts and comments as it's great motivation to keep me going. Onto the next chapter now, in which Colm and Arthur have their chat. I tried to keep it close to what originally happened in the game, with a few tweaks to match the new story line of course, so I hope it's convincing. Enjoy!

* * *

It had been quiet for a while. Every so often the silence was broken by his heavy breaths, and a few stifled groans from across the room. Each time it happened he looked the man's way, calling out, hoping, but was met with only silence.

Then another groan broke through the air, harsher this time, catching his attention. It was broken by a cough, followed by an even louder groan. Dutch glanced over to where the man hang, watching.

“Arthur?” he kept his voice quiet; the last thing they needed was to draw unwanted attention. “Arthur, my boy, you with me?”

There was grunt in response, one that could almost be construed as an affirmation. He hadn't moved, arms still hanging limply towards the ground, but Dutch could see the man blinking, squinting the dim light. Eyes searching, seeking; finally meeting his gaze. Despite the situation Dutch couldn't help but smile, the smallest bit of relief filling him.

Arthur groaned a moment later, his eyes closing again. “I told you it was a set up.” The words were soft, broken up by rough breaths.

“That you did,” Dutch breathed with a bit of a chuckle. Arthur could blame him till judgment day for all he cared, he was just happy to hear the man talk. “How you feeling, son?”

“Just swell,” he muttered, another groan as his breathing hitched, “remind me to thank Micah for a lovely day out.”

Micah...he was going to kill that rat with his own hands. Damn treacherous bastard. Worse yet, how many times had he been warned about the man? And still he had trusted him. What a damn fool he was. He heard Arthur grunt, a low whine escaping him as he lifted his one arm.

“I think...” he breathed, voice hitching slightly, “I think I got shot.”

“Oh you definitely were shot,” Dutch confirmed; the memory still made him sick.

“Well...that explains a lot,” Arthur grumbled, pausing as he caught his breath. “Where are we?”

“Some cellar, best I can tell,” Dutch shrugged, “I wasn't very...coherent when they brought me in." He had chosen his words tactfully. There was no need to concern him unnecessarily. "I didn't really get a chance to look around.”

“So we can be anywhere?” Arthur didn't sound too happy at that prospect.

“I don't think we're too far from where we met,” Dutch mused, doing his best to recall the journey here. He had spent most of his time unconscious yes...but he suspected they hadn't gone too far. Would have to stay somewhere close if Colm expected the gang to ride in to rescue them.

He didn't get a chance to explain his reasoning, looking up at the cellar door opened. Of course they would choose now to interrupt them when Arthur had just come to. The area around them lit up, rays from a lantern casting shadows around them as the sound of footsteps filled the area. A moment later Colm came into sight, holding the lantern high, a plate of food in his other hand. He ignored Dutch this time, his gaze instead focused on the strung up man.

“Arthur Morgan,” he all but breathed, moving to set the lantern on the ground. “Good to see you.”

“Hello, Colm,” Arthur returned the greeting, sounded almost as though he was bored. Or perhaps it was because the man was still trying to get his bearings.

“Colm,” Dutch shook his head, trying to distract him. “Leave him out of this. Your grievances are with me.”

The man was eating, actually eating, despite the situation. The bastard. He turned towards Dutch, taking another bite, shaking the spoon at him in mock disappointment. “Now, now, no need to get jealous. Arthur and I? We have some catching up to do, so you just sit there and mind yourself,” he turned away, taking yet another bite of food, simply watching the man. 

“How's the wound?” Colm wondered just then, reaching out with the spoon towards the man's shoulder.

“Hardly feel it,” Arthur retorted, a groan breaking free as he grabbed Colm's wrist, feebly trying to push him off.

“Oh you will,” Colm laughed, pulling back. “Septic? It ain't nice.”

Dutch cursed under his breath, tugging at the ropes some more. Shit, if the wound was already infected then they were in trouble; he knew that was a possibility, way in the back of his mind, but had refused to believe it. That meant they had even less time than he first thought.

“Now tell me,” Colm continued, “fine gun like you, why you still running around with old Dutch? Could come ride with me and make real money.”

“It ain't about the money, Colm,” Arthur breathed, answering without hesitation. Dutch felt the smallest surge of pride. He had always been loyal. Colm would have to be a fool to think Arthur would be so easily swayed.

“Oh no,” Colm had moved, had set the plate on the table near him, “It's Dutch's famous _charisma_ ,” the last word was emphasized with a kick, a cry wrenched from Arthur's lips.

“Colm!” Dutch all but growled, watching as Arthur swung around on the chains. But if Colm heard, he didn't react. No, his attention was still on Arthur, crouching down so he was almost eye level.

“You killed a whole bunch of my boys at Six Point Cabin.”

Six Point Cabin...yes, Dutch could remember that. Arthur, John and Bill had followed Kieran's directions up that way. They had ambushed the place hoping to find Colm. The man hadn't been there, but Arthur had said they managed to take down quite a few O'driscolls. That had been so long ago now...

“I ain't got no clue what you're talking about,” Arthur denied the accusation, fighting off a cough.

“Oh you lie my friend,” Colm shook his head, “and I thought Dutch preached truth?” He pulled a gun the next moment, leveling it Arthur's face. Dutch felt his heart skip a beat, his throat tight even as he pleaded with the man to put the gun down. It fell on deaf ears. He may have been worried, but Arthur didn't seem to share his sentiment. He sounded almost annoyed when he spoke next.

“Let us go, Colm, and end all this crap between you two. We all got real problems now.”

“The way I see it, they get you lot, they forgot about us,” Colm reasoned, holstering the gun.

“They ain't the forgetting sort,” Arthur shook his head, fighting back another groan. “If I were you, I'd run as soon as I had the money.”

“Oh I know you would,” Colm laughed, taking a step closer. Dutch watched as the man reached out, fingers tracing down his chest, “But see, Micah leads in the rest of the gang to rescue you, we grab them up, and hand ya in...then disappear...”

Arthur batted his hand away in annoyance, a scowl on his face. “Micah?” there's a scoff, almost a laugh if Dutch knew better, “Best not to hold your breath. Micah runs from a fight, not into one.”

“Oh, all of this was his idea in the first place,” Colm laughed, watching Arthur's face as the realization hit. “He's been most helpful, wouldn't you agree?”

“That's not...”  
  


“He's gonna lead them over. They'll be so mad; gonna come raging over here..and the law will be waiting for them. Oh Arthur,” Colm laughed, pulling his gun free. He flipped it, so he was holding it by the barrel, a smile splitting his face. “Arthur, I missed you,” and then he swung the gun.

Once, twice, a third time, a fourth time. Solid smacks right into his side, causing him to flinch and twist in feeble attempt to escape. Dutch didn't even realize he was screaming, cursing the man as he watched the beating. More than one cry was wrenched from Arthur's lips, the man trying in vain to fend off the blows. Colm was laughing, the sadistic bastard, but finally he had stopped, holstering his gun. He paused long enough to tip his hat towards Dutch, before collecting his things.

“Arthur?” Dutch didn't even wait for the door to close. Was watching the man sway back and forth, his eyes scrunched close, teeth clenched tightly. Even from here he could hear the stunted breaths, the muffled gasps.

“Come on, Arthur, breathe,” he encouraged the man. He was surprised to hear him laugh, a dry chuckle as he gasped.

“'m trying,” came the stunted reply. Another gasp, followed by a curse. Then silence...Dutch felt his throat go dry. It took a moment for him to find his voice, called out to him...but there was no response. Shit...

Dutch closed his eyes, listening to the sounds around him. It took a moment, but eventually he could hear the breaths, the reassurance that the man was alive. He had just passed out; it wasn't a surprise to be honest. God damn Colm. Caught up in this god damn mess...

They shouldn't even be here. He should have listened to Hosea, to Arthur. Had known in the back of his mind that things would have gone ill. What a god damn fool he had been. If they made it out of this alive...he let out a sigh. They _had_ to make it out of alive.


	4. Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a longer chapter here, but I don't think anyone will complain. Enjoy!

* * *

There was a groan, followed a rough cough. A painful sounding one, if he was to judge by the whine that followed. Dutch had almost drifted off, had almost fallen asleep, but he was certainly awake now.

“You back with me, son?”

There was a pause, then the response feeble, words half slurred.

“I think so,” Arthur drawled, eyes blinking open. He let out another groan, almost a whimper. “You know, Dutch...next time you and I go out and spend the day together...can you try and avoid the whole capture and torture routine? I think I'm getting too old for it.”

Despite the situation, Dutch couldn't help but laugh. He was so relieved to hear the other man talk. “I will do my best, that I promise you.”

“Good,” Arthur grunted, wincing as he reached up with one hand to press against the tender flesh.

“You doing okay?”

“About as good as I look I suppose,” Arthur muttered, “Think I busted a rib...what about you?”

“Don't you worry about me, son. I'll be just fine,” Dutch shook his head. He wasn't the one strung upside down, half beaten with a bullet lodged inside of him.

He could tell Arthur didn't believe him, could tell by the look the man shot his way. Still he didn't argue, just let his arm drop, hanging there limply. “So...Micah?”

“Damn rat,” Dutch spat out, shifting in the chair. “I should have seen it sooner...I'm so sorry, Arthur.”

“Should have left him to hang, Dutch,” Arthur shook his head. “Didn't trust him from the start.”

“I know,” Dutch nodded, “I know.”

Arthur had been ever persistent to cut the man loose. That was saying a lot, he realized now, seeing how Arthur watched out for and even entertained everyone else around camp. Throughout the years, Dutch hadn't seen Arthur take such a dislike to anyone so quickly. Sure, there was a lot of people the man didn't care for, but he tolerated them. Micah was not one of those people. Had never been.

Dutch should have listened, should have known something wasn't right, but he had been blinded by his own folly. Micah had saved his life, so he had taken the man in, had turned a blind eye to his antics. Had believed that surely the man couldn't have been as bad as everyone was saying. Hot-headed, rash, angry...sure, but he had been a fine gun...and now he was going to be the entire gang's downfall.

Dutch let out a sigh. “We have got to get out of here.”

“Sure Dutch,” Arthur muttered dryly. “I'll get right on that.”

“Enough with the sarcasm,” Dutch all but pleaded. That was the last thing he needed when he was trying to think. He needed a plan, a way they could slip free and avoid the bloody mess he knew was coming. Maybe he could bargain with Colm the next time the man came down. Find some way to dupe him, at least long enough to ensure their escape. But no...Colm might not be the brightest, but he definitely was not that dense. He frowned as the clinking of chains filled the air, glancing up only to see Arthur swinging back and forth.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting out of here,” Arthur all but grunted in response.

What? Did he think he could just swing his way out of here? Dutch was about to scold him, to tell him to stop the nonsense before he hurt himself further, but then he watched as Arthur reached out towards the table, a curse escaping the man's lips as he fell short, renewing his efforts to swing even harder.

Another pass brought him near the table, hand reaching out, missing once again. What in the world was he trying to get? Dutch stretched out as much as the ropes would allow, and could just see the glint of metal. Was that a file? Had the idiots really left a file down here? The fools...

“Come on,” Dutch encouraged him quietly, doing his best to ignore the grunts of what was undoubtedly pain from the man from the entire ordeal. The next pass brought him even closer, fingers brushing against the file. Almost...he got it on the next swing. Dutch felt his hopes surge.

Arthur took a moment to catch his breath and then he pulled himself up with a grunt, reaching the manacles about his ankles, and stabbed the file into the lock. One turn, then another, and suddenly he was falling, a gasp as he hit the floor hard.

“Good job, Arthur,” he praised the man, watching as the man pulled the sack off his head, throwing it one side. He couldn't believe this stroke of luck; oh how their fortunes were turning. Arthur pushed his way to his feet, stumbling over towards him, falling to his knees by his side with a wince. He was half leaning against him as he fumbled with the ropes, pulling the knot free.

Being this close now Dutch could see the flush in his pale cheeks, the sweat plastering his forehead, could feel the heat rolling off the man's body. He was burning with fever. Colm's earlier words haunting him. _Septic, it ain't nice..._

The last of the ropes were pulled free and Dutch reached down, undoing the bindings that trapped his feet. Arthur was moving already, stumbling towards the stairs, stopping only as Dutch grabbed him from behind, pulling him back. “Sit down here a moment.”

“We don't have the time,” Arthur argued, but Dutch wouldn't relent. He almost had to force him down, a hand on his good shoulder.

“We have just enough time; now sit,” he nearly demanded, crouching down so that he was at eye level with him. “Let's see to this wound.”

It was bleeding still; raw and ugly looking. The top half of his union suit was stained, a testament to how much blood he had lost already. Dutch reached up even as Arthur was shaking his head, fingers working to free the top buttons. There was a curse as he pulled the fabric away, getting a better look at the injury. It looked horrendous...he felt his stomach turn just from looking at it, battling the nausea that was there.

“Dutch,” Arthur swallowed around his labored breathing, “we have to move. They're gonna come back...”

“Let's try and get this under control first,” he shook his head. Colm had left them just a short time ago, and Dutch was banking on the fact that no one would check on them for a bit. They had some time to spare, and if they were going to make it out of here, he needed Arthur conscious. That was something that wouldn't last long at this rate if they did nothing.

“Bullet's still in there,” Arthur's voice was almost a whisper.

“I know,” Dutch sympathized. The first thing had to do was get that out. But he didn't have a knife with him, there would be little hope of cutting it out. And he couldn't very will just dig in there with his fingers, he needed something, something thin and long....

“Where's that file?”

Arthur made a vague motion towards the ground behind him. Dutch turned, scouring the ground, catching sight of it near the table. He grabbed it quickly, wiping it on his pants as he moved back to the table, holding the tip over the open flame. Thank goodness they had left this here...

Once it was heated, he moved back to Arthur, one hand resting on his shoulder, mindful of the wound, the other holding the file, bringing it near the flesh. This was not going to be pleasant. He was about to push it in, but Arthur stopped him, hand wrapping around his, shaking his head.

“Arthur, it needs to be done,” he stressed. It would kill him unless they got it out. This was not the first time the man had been shot, he knew the routine. So why was he hesitating?

“Let me do this,” he tried to pull the file from his hands, but Dutch held on tight.

“It's better if you let me,” he reasoned, “I know you hurt, son. I'll be as quick as I can...”

“I can feel the damn thing in me,” Arthur cursed, still not relenting.

“Just trust me, son,” he pleaded. Arthur let go with a sigh, swallowing with a nod. Dutch let out his own breath, then pushed the file in.

There was a muted scream, Arthur reaching up to grasp his arm, gripping hard enough to bruise. Dutch grit his teeth, pushed forward a little more, felt the file catch on something. Dug a little deeper, twisted it, could feel it move. Under him the man gasped, body tense, hitching as he bit back a sob.

“Almost got it,” he breathed, a vague attempt to reassure him. Damn, the amount of pain he had to be in...

Arthur was biting his lip, his eyes squeezed shut, breaths coming in short pants. Dutch tried not to think about the fact that he was the source of this horrible pain, and pushed the file in a little further, felt the bullet move again, flicked his wrist, could see it now. A moment later and it was free, and he was quick to encourage the man to breathe. Arthur drew in a few shaky breaths, a stunted groan as his head fell back against the wall.

“It's out, Arthur, it's over, you're okay,” Dutch reassured him, squeezing his good shoulder. “You did good; real good,” he breathed. He knew that had to be a new kind of hell for him. Normally they had the blessing of whiskey or gin, some sort of liquor that dulled the senses before attempting such a feat. There was no such luck here, but at least the worst was over. Or so he thought.

The wound was bleeding freely now, far quicker than it had been a moment ago. He had solved one problem, and yet created a whole new one in its place. Shit, he was bleeding fast now, and Arthur had already been pale to begin with. His eyes scanned the room, searching for something they might be able to use to tie it off, to ebb the flow. It was then he spied the box of ammo sitting in the corner on one side, the burning candle casting flickering shadows over it, almost calling him. Dutch let out a sigh; that would have to do.

He pulled a shell free, popping off the top, pausing as he turned back to Arthur. The man was watching him, let out a groan as he saw what he was holding.

“Great,” he muttered, wincing as Dutch poured the powder over the wound. He set the empty shell down, picked up the candle, hesitated again as he met Arthur's gaze.

“You ready?”

“Just do it,” he all but breathed. Another quiet scream, Arthur doing his best to not cry out even through the pain. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air, the sizzling as it burned. He felt his stomach turn. God damn Colm. The man was going to be wishing for death by the time he was through with him.

He set the candle down, went to encourage Arthur to breathe again, to take a moment, but there was no time. He could hear the door above open, new voices filling the air. Arthur heard it too, was moving already despite the pain, pressing himself against the wall.

“I don't want to go to Mexico, I want to go home...home,” the voice was complaining, steps sounding as they came down the stairs. “Hold on, I'll be back in a minute.”

Dutch grabbed the file off the floor, following Arthur's lead as a lantern slowly filled the area with light. He motioned for Arthur to stay still, gripping the file tightly. It was a poor weapon, but Dutch had every intention of driving it through the O'driscoll's neck.

“What the hell?” the man didn't get a chance to finish the thought. It was Arthur who moved first despite Dutch's indications. He grabbed the man from behind, wrapping an arm around his neck. There was a brief struggle, the O'driscoll panicking as Arthur pulled him back, snapping his head to one side. He went limp, dropping to the floor as Arthur winced, stumbling to the wall, one hand pressed against his wound. Damn fool...he was going to get himself killed at this rate.

Dutch shook his head, knowing there was little use in arguing. He moved over to the prone body, searching his pockets. No gun...shit. All he had on them were knives. He pulled them out, showing them to Arthur. Not ideal, but better than nothing. “You ready?” he whispered.

“More than ready,” Arthur all but breathed. His face was still pale, and he was still short-winded from the recent ordeal. They were starting to run out of time. Dutch moved to his feet, pushing his way to the stairs.

“Alright, follow my lead,” he paused at the base of the stairs, seeing the figures as they crossed in the front of the opening.

“What's he still doing down there? It's one thing torturing a man, it's another thing putting him through stories of the homeland...”

Laughter filled the air, fading away as the men moved on. Dutch motioned for Arthur to follow, slowly creeping up the stairs. They had to be careful; there was no telling how many of them were up here. If anyone spotted them, they would be dead, despite Colm's insistence they be kept alive. Somehow they made it to the top unseen, slow silent steps as Dutch led the way. He came to a stop against the cabin, pausing a moment. Arthur was breathing heavy as he crouched near him. It was clear that the short exertion had taken a toll on him.

Dutch bit his lip, peeking around the corner, could see a single man there. The O'driscoll had bent down, picking something off the ground. Dutch swallowed, gripping the knife, trying to line up a shot. From behind him, Arthur touched his shoulder, and he glanced back at the other man.

“You ever use one of those before?”

“Been a while,” he breathed. Now was probably not the time to admit he had never gotten the hang of throwing knives. That had never been his style, but here they were, and it wasn't like they had much of a choice. Arthur smacked his arm, hand held out expectantly. Dutch frowned, but relented with a sigh.

“And I suppose you know how?”

“Charles taught me,” he explained, moving up near him to peer around the corner. He could only watch as Arthur crouched, gripping the knife by the tip of the blade. There was a wince as he drew in a breath, a slight groan as he brought his arm back over his head, the blade flying through the air. The man dropped without a sound.

“Remind me to thank Charles,” he muttered lightly, following Arthur around the corner. This man had a gun, Arthur passing it to him without pause. He felt better with the weight in his hand, but he knew it was also a curse. It would protect them, sure, but as soon as he fired off a shot, every damn O'driscoll would know where they were. No, he would only use the gun if he had too. That meant letting Arthur lead, despite the man's deteriorating state. Dutch found himself praying he could hold in there long enough as they made their way along the length of the cabin.

They paused again at the next corner, Arthur the one peering around the corner this time, his breaths still short and heavy. He moved quick, falling to one knee, bringing his arm up again. Another man down. Arthur let out a groan, leaning back against the wall. Dutch moved around him, risking a glance. There was yet another figure, not too far from the man he had just dropped. It wouldn't be long before he noticed the corpse. They had to be quick. He turned back to Arthur, hand resting on the man's arm, meeting his gaze.

“You got one more in you, big boy?” he held up the last knife.

He heard Arthur laugh, something more of a scoff as he pushed himself up. Both of them kept low, moving slowly over the open ground. Dutch could hear his heart pounding, gun held tightly in his hand. They were so close now...the horses were nearby, they could easily steal one...and he recognized this area. If memory served him right, this was where the men had put their weapons.

There was another groan as Arthur threw the last blade, hitting his mark right in the throat. Dutch praised him, hand squeezing the man's good shoulder. It was quiet now; that seemed to be the last one in the immediate area. “Alright, sit here here a moment, catch your breath. I'll be back as soon as I can.”

“Sure, just holler if you end up getting killed,” Arthur grumbled, words dripping with sarcasm. Always the cynic he was. Still the man had eased himself down, leaning against the cabin for support, eyes closing.

Dutch left him there, head down as he skirted across the opening towards the shed. There were several crates outside, and quickly he rifled through them, his heart hammering. They were filled with clothes mostly, nothing he recognized, all of which were moth-eaten and disheveled as he pawed through them. And then....oh sweet relief...their things were here. He pulled out their sidearms, their satchels, shouldering them as he moved away.

Now they just needed horses. Best if they took one, he reasoned. Dutch wasn't sure how far Arthur would make it on his own, the man seemed to be on the edge of collapse as it was. The last thing he needed was a fall from a horse during an attempted escape.

Dutch crept quietly along the shed, moving to where the horses had been stabled. His own horse was absent, having lost The Count when the horse had taken off during the commotion with Colm. But any steed would do, and he was hoping he'd find one that was compliant. There were soft nickers, a snort from one ornery one. Dutch reached up, about to take a Nokota when he paused, seeing another horse just then. He recognized that horse...

That was Bella...he breathed. That was Arthur's horse. He pushed his way up to her, a stout Missouri Fox Trotter, stroking her face gently as she nickered, butting into him. “Yeah, you know me, don't you? Let's get Arthur and go home, girl.”

He untied her reigns, leading her away from the area, pausing only long enough to see if anyone was coming his way. But everything was quiet, and it seemed like luck was with them, at least for now. He crossed the gap again, back to where Arthur still was, rough breaths filling the air. He was shaking lightly now, a slight tremble that almost went missed. Damn, they had get out of here.

“Look who I found,” he hoped it would lift the man's spirits. The man always did love horses, and he had grown particularly fond of this latest steed. Arthur cracked open his eyes, glancing up at the horse, a small smile crossing his lips.

“Hey girl,” he pushed himself to his feet, staggering slightly. Dutch caught him, helping him over.

“Up you go, on the back there,” he encouraged, helping him up behind the saddle. It was a struggle, the man biting back a moan as he settled on the back of the horse. Christ, Arthur hadn't even argued. The man must be feeling worse than he thought. Dutch didn't ponder it for too long, pulling himself up as well, easing himself into the saddle. He clicked his tongue, setting off into a trot.

Arthur grabbed onto him from behind, hands at his hips as they made their way down the path. He could feel his heavy breaths, hot on the back of his neck, catching every so often. Dutch had little doubt that the rough jolting was doing him no favors. Arthur would be hurting by the time they got back...

“Hang in there, son, it's not far now,” he breathed. It was a lie. They were a ways from camp, up near the Heartlands. He recognized that bridge, knew they near Flatneck Station. Shit...they may have well been as far as Blackwater at this rate.

He cursed suddenly, pulling Bella to a stop, having just glimpsed the light on the road. Behind him he heard Arthur stir, the man swallowing before he spoke.

“What is it?”

“Patrols on the road,” he swore again, seeing yet another light. Of course they would be watching the road, waiting to raise the alarm when the gang rode in to save them.

“Go down along the river,” Arthur urged. “There should be a path close by; water is shallow there, we should be able to cross.”

He nodded, urging Bella back into a trot. It was hard to see in the night, but he trusted Arthur. Knew the man had scouted this area. Probably knew his earlier words about being close had been a lie. Bella had worked her way down the bank, trotting along the water's edge now. They were passing under the bridge, the roar of a train up above deafening in the night. He could feel the weight press against him from behind then, could feel the man's head drop, coming to a rest between his shoulders. Could feel him start to slide...

Dutch grabbed at his arm quickly, crossing it in front of his waist, keeping him balanced. “You with me, Arthur?”

There was no response. Shit, he must have passed out again. Dutch urged the horse on, picking up the pace. They needed to get back to camp. He hadn't gotten him this far just to lose him now. Arthur had made it through all this, surely he could hold on a little longer. He had too, because Dutch refused to believe the alternate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to keep things close to cannon with the slight twist. Still more to come so stick around and drop a comment if you enjoyed. I love hearing from everyone :)


	5. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which they make it home...but what then?

* * *

Dutch considered it a miracle they had made it out of there. Just a short time ago they had been held captive with intention of being used as bait to bring ruin to the rest of their family. Now they were free, breathing the open fresh air, making their way home. It felt almost surreal, as though he was dreaming. But no, they were here, they were free. Yet despite that, Dutch felt even more trapped than before.

Arthur had drifted in and out of consciousness, only vaguely aware of where they were, or what was going on. Spent most of his time slumped against Dutch's back, forehead pressed against his shoulder. And with the close proximity Dutch could feel the heat radiating off the man's body. Could feel the tremor that raced through him. He was fading fast; they may have gotten out of there, but the repercussions of their ordeal were still unknown.

“Stay with me, Arthur,” Dutch all but pleaded. One hand held the reigns, urging Bella on, the other still grasped the Arthur's forearm that was still wrapped about his waist. Doing everything he could to keep the man upright. They were getting closer to camp now, would be there soon. “Just hold on a little longer.”

While getting Arthur back was his main goal, it wasn't the only concern on his mind. He had to get back before the gang took off, before Micah had a chance to lead them into the trap. Micah...Dutch felt the anger flair once more, burning so bright it almost blinded him. Loyalty was all they had. Loyalty, love, their family. And that was one thing you did not jeopardize. Micah had betrayed them, had nearly killed them, was willing to kill them all for money. And even if he made it back before the others left, there was still the chance they may lose Arthur...

He swallowed, pushing the thoughts from his mind. He could not lose it now. Had to keep his head level, needed to stay focused. They had reached the road that led to camp now, passing the ruined structures, the familiar trees rising up in front of them. Dutch urged Bella on faster, more than eager to reach the familiar confines of camp. He slowed only as he approached the edge, taking in his surroundings.

He could see the glow of fire ahead, could see the figures circled in there. So they hadn't left yet; good. But now he had to be cautious. He didn't want for Micah to know they had returned, wanted to catch the man unaware before he was able to make a move. Dutch felt he might not have that choice; surely when one of the sentries saw him they would give them away. But they rode in unchallenged, Dutch feeling the faint prickling of unease at the back of his neck, the heavy feeling his gut that something was wrong. Why was no one keeping watch?

He heard the voices then, caught in the heat of discussion. Recognized John's voice, arguing with someone. Micah's voice next, calm and reassuring.

“Look, I know you all are worried, but trust me, I have an idea where they might be.”

“And you would know that how?” John wondered, the accusation easy to hear in his voice. Dutch nudged Bella forward slowly, pulling a gun free.

“Because I spent time with an O'driscoll in jail, back when I was in Strawberry. Fella like to talk, said something about a cabin up past Flatneck Station; sort of a hideout for them. We'll gather up some guns, and head up there, and get them back.”

“It's rather convenient that you just happened to remember this now.” That was Hosea, could see the man now. There was a group of them standing the midst of the camp around the fire, Micah having taking the center, one leg resting on the log, supporting his weight as he leaned forward. He had made himself comfortable awfully fast, Dutch mused.

“I just remembered,” he defended himself, “been so worried, so guilt-ridden with all that's happened. I wish it was me they had taken, but luck is funny, ain't it? Consider it a fortune that I managed to slip free, seeing that I'm the only one who knows where they may be.”

“And how did you manage to slip away?” Charles wondered.

“Like I told you; I'm a survivor. I saw my chance and took it, that's all you need to know. Besides, now's not the time to be swapping stories by the fireside, we got work to do. We gotta go get our boys.”

“On the contrary,” Dutch finally spoke, nudging Bella into the opening, “I would love to hear your rendition of your valiant escape. Why don't you enlighten us?”

There was a mixture of cries, sighs of relief as he rode in. Questions filling the air, asking where he had been, wanting to know what happened. He ignored them all, pulling to a stop, watching as the confidence all but evaporate from Micah's face. The man straightened up, took a step back, a hitch in his voice as he answered.

“Boss, oh boss, it's good to see you,” he faltered as the gun was leveled at him.

“Dutch?” Hosea questioned him, but he didn't press.

Dutch kept the gun trained on him, barely keeping his anger at bay. “Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you right now.”

“Now boss,” Micah had his hands by his side, fingers twitching, “let's not get unreasonable now,” he stammered. Dutch could see the man reaching for his gun, fingers brushing on the handle. “I know things looked bad back there, but I can explain-” he didn't get to finish.

All the hate, all the anger that Dutch had felt before came racing back, the fury surging in him. He fired a single shot, the bullet tearing through the man's head, dropping him where he stood. Dutch had always been a good shot. There were a few curses around him, a mixture of alarm and shock.

“Not good enough,” he swore, holstering his gun. He had spent so long envisioning the man's death, on how it would occur, and part of him felt that had been far too easy for the amount he, and certainly Arthur had suffered. But it was done...it was taken care of. Around him he he saw the others watching him, could see the apprehension, the uncertainty. He knew he owed them an explanation.

“He sold us out to Colm, the damn bastard,” it was all he could get out just then. Dutch shook his head. As a general rule they tried to avoid killing in camp. It had happened once before with another traitor, but that had been long ago.

“Bill, Javier, take care of the body,” he muttered, trying to calm himself, all the sudden feeling far more tired than he had any right to be. He nodded towards the other man standing there, “Charles...will you help Arthur down? Grimshaw, Swanson...he needs some looking after.”

Charles had come up near them, had reached up to help. Dutch could feel Arthur tense behind him, could feel the man grab onto the back of his vest as he was moved, being pulled from the horse. “It's okay Arthur, you're home,” he reassured the man, “I got you home. You're safe now.”

“What did they do to him?”

“Nothing pleasant,” Dutch all but growled, watching as Arthur attempted to get his feet under him, stumbling more than once. The man seemed barely aware of what was going on, a groan escaping his lips as Charles shouldered his weight. “Watch his shoulder; bastards shot him.”

“It's okay, Mr. Morgan,” Grimshaw reassured him, “let's get you to bed, it'll be alright.”

“And you?” Hosea wondered, coming up as he dismounted. Dutch let out a sigh, shaking his head.

“I'll be fine.”

“You look a little rough,” the older man countered, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Let's get you cleaned up, shall we?”

He could very well take care of himself. His hurts were minor, bruises mostly, his pride wounded. Yet he had known Hosea for more than twenty years, knew the man well enough to understand that he wanted to talk, wanted the real story of what had happened. Dutch nodded, leading the way back to his tent. He was worn, exhausted by all that had transpired, all but chasing Molly away as he ducked under the hanging canvass. He truly did not have patience to deal with her at the moment.

“You can't just go and start shooting people,” Hosea chastised him as soon as he stepped in.

“He was a god damn traitor, Hosea,” Dutch ground out, sitting on the bed. “What would you have me do?”

“I don't know,” the other man shook his head, standing in front of him. “But you ride in, guns blazing, shooting people? Folk are gonna worry that you've gone and lost your mind. They trust you, Dutch, and now?”

“ _Micah_ set that whole thing up,” he spat out the man's name like it was some vile poison, as though it was far too dirty and shameful to be in their presence. “ _Micah_ was talking with Colm, had been talking with Colm for a while, it seems. Staged the whole thing, was going to turn _all_ of us over to the law. You don't betray _our_ family like that, and live.”

Dutch worked at the buttons on his vest, pulling the soiled garment free. It was torn in some places, stained with blood, most of which was Arthur's. It was well beyond salvaging, he reckoned.

“So should I fetch Pearson then?” Hosea caught his attention, watching him still. “Trot him in here so you can shoot him as well? Or do you have another method you'd prefer?”

“What are you going on about?” Dutch looked at him skeptically, tossing the vest to one side, his focus now on removing his shirt.

“Pearson was the one who talked to them O'driscolls back in the saloon,” Hosea pointed out. “You're so willing to deal out justice without second thought, why not have at him?”

Pearson...he had known the man for years now. Had never once doubted him; never had any reason to. He paused, shirt half undone, reaching up with hand to rub the back of his neck. Surely there was no way...no. Colm would have said so. Would have had no reason not to. The man would have spent an eternity gloating about everyone who betrayed him, just as he had about Micah. Dutch let out a breath, shaking his head.

“No...I do not believe he had any hand in this,” Dutch looked back up at Hosea. “I will speak with him...once I've had a moment to clear my head. Give me a chance to think straight.”

“And there's the rationale I was looking for,” Hosea chided him, but there was warmth behind his voice.

“What do you want of me, Hosea?” he wondered, far too tired to be playing these games. “The man was a traitor. Was I supposed to let him go? Let him go fetch the O'driscolls, lead them all back to camp?” he was focused on pulling his shirt off again, trying to get his hands to stop shaking long enough to undue the last few buttons. His nerves must be catching up with him. That or it was exhaustion. It would not fail to surprise him.

“There's your first problem,” Hosea reached out, pulling the fabric off his shoulders. He didn't balk at the help. Modesty was not something they were accustomed to, not with how they lived their lives on the run. “How much did he tell Colm?”

He felt the anger surge again, the accusation in the man's voice clear. Dutch pushed himself to his feet, snapping in response. “He told him enough, that's all you need to know.”

“Does Colm know where we are? Do we need to move camp?”

“I...” Dutch faltered, stopping where he was, fingers looped around his gun belt. There was a moment of silence, the realization hitting him just then. He swallowed, meeting Hosea's gaze. “I don't know.”

“Perhaps that sort of information would have been imperative to obtain, you think?”

The man was right, he knew. Micah had been outnumbered, could have been subdued easily. They should have restrained him, interrogated him to find out exactly how much he had shared. He knew that Micah and Colm had spoken privately...damn it.

“Perhaps I have been too rash,” Dutch admitted, hanging his gun belt over a chair. His trousers were next, kicking them free before sitting back on the bed. “I don't think he told Colm.”

He wasn't sure if he was trying to reassure himself, or Hosea. “He was too smart for that, would have wanted to keep it a secret, in case things didn't work out. If he told Colm where we were, they would have just brought the law here, instead of setting up that entire ruse.”

“I hope you're right, Dutch,” Hosea warned him. “You and your rash decisions are going to get us all killed one of these days.”

“I was a fool, Hosea,” he muttered quietly, knowing that Hosea had been right about Micah. Now they were running blind, basing their hopes on blind faith of what may or may not have happened. “I should have found out more before I...I was just so angry...he made a fool of me. Of us...tried to have me killed, just about killed Arthur,” he swallowed, knowing the worst was not yet over.

“They shot him, Hosea.” The memory was still fresh in his mind. “Right in front of me. He wasn't even a threat. They had him tied up, pinned to ground, had already beaten him, and still they shot him. I was so sure that they had killed him right there...and there was nothing I could do. And then Colm,” he sighed, unable to finish the thought.

“That must have been the blood Charles found,” Hosea told him grimly. Dutch opened his eyes as the man pressed a wet rag in his hands. “He was able to follow your tracks a couple of miles north; he lost them around the water. I know he blames himself for that. Feels like he let the two of you down.”

Dutch pressed the cloth against his face, slowly wiping away the blood that was there. “He hasn't done anything of the sort. Surely Micah knew you would send someone after us; Charles is the damn fine tracker. I am certain he shared that knowledge with Colm; probably had his boys ride in the water. Didn't want his plans foiled by you lot showing up too early.”

“So it seems,” Hosea agreed. He took the bloody rag back from Dutch, cleaning it out before handing it back, motioning towards his neck. The cuts there stung, but it was just a minor nuisance considering everything else.

“He came back with a wild and crazed look in his eye, ranting about how you and Arthur were taken. Claimed he barely got away.”

“Did you believe him?” Dutch wondered, wiping away the last of the blood.

“I never believed anything he said, about anything,” Hosea defended himself. “But with you two gone, and nothing else to go off of...well, folks were desperate. They were scared, Dutch. I stayed back with a couple of the boys in case we needed to protect the women. The rest of them took off with Micah back to where the meeting was. I just about had a heart attack, that's how damn upset I was. I kept expecting them to bring bodies back. When they didn't, well, that's when I knew something odd was going on. I kept a close eye on Micah, but the man never left camp. Then suddenly he starts spouting off about having an idea to where you might be..and well, you know the rest.”

Yeah, he knew the rest. What a god damn mess this all was. “I am so sorry. I should have listened to you.”

“That you should have,” the man chided him gently. Hosea cleared his throat handing him a set of fresh clothes, motioning for him to dress. “But I'm glad to see you two. How did you manage to get out of there anyway?”

“I did do anything,” he confessed, slipping into the clean garments. His nightclothes; it seemed as though Hosea was putting him to bed. “Arthur was the one who got us free. We'd still be there if it wasn't for him; he found something to pick the locks, got me free, killed the bastards that were guarding the place. All I did was ride a horse home. I've never felt so useless before.”

“What?” Hosea cocked an eyebrow, “No grandiose tale of your harrowing escape? I don't know if I'm shocked or offended.”

Despite the situation, Dutch laughed. “Not this time old friend. I'll leave the theatrics to Arthur. If he makes it.” His voice had fallen, the knowledge that he may face a reality without the man all too sudden and fierce.

“Ain't no one gonna be dying on us Dutch,” Hosea scolded him, “Especially not our boy. You go on and get some rest, I'll keep watch over things. Gonna send a couple of the boys out, make sure we aren't facing a potential ambush. We don't need any more problems tonight.”

Dutch rubbed a hand over his face, acting as though that would diminish the headache that was lingering there. Sleep was the only real cure for that, but right now, that feat seemed more difficult than it had any right to be.

“Later, maybe,” he shook his head. “I'll go sit with Arthur, make sure he's okay.”  
  


“Last thing we need is for you to be underfoot,” Hosea pointed out. “You know that Grimshaw and Swanson will take good care of him.”

That he did know. Susan had known Arthur for nearly as long as they had, had helped raised him, had fussed over his hurts more than once. And Swanson might be a hopeless drunken addict more often than not, but the man had enough sense of when to pull his head out of his ass long enough to be useful, that was for sure. Still, it gave him little comfort, wanting to see the man with his own eyes. But Hosea was shaking his head, hand on his shoulder, pushing him down.

“Do a favor and humor me,” Hosea pleaded, “it would ease an old fella like me to know that you are taking care of yourself. I'm not the only one who needs you strong, Dutch. So get some god damn rest.”

He let out a growl, frustrated and angry, but ultimately knew that Hosea was right. He needed to rest. He needed to be strong. Reluctantly he gave in, silently promising himself he would only take an hour, maybe two, just long enough to banish this god awful headache that had settled beneath his eyes. That was all he needed. And then he would be busy. Because he needed to make some plans.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that takes care of Micah...like really. He seemed way too conspicuous in this mission to not have been involved. I imagine that Dutch would not have the restraint to not just kill him right on the spot. At any rate, the next chapter will be out soon! Hope you enjoyed!


	6. Fever

* * *

At the moment he was stuck in pure misery. Every bone, every muscle, every fiber of his being ached. A restless pounding, deep and unforgiving. He was shaking, could feel the sweat soaking him through. It hurt to move, to think...even to breathe...why did everything hurt so bad?

He groaned, turning away as something pressed against his forehead, fearful of even yet more pain. But it was cool, comforting, bringing a small bit of respite a moment later. Only for a moment. It left soon after, and he couldn't help but whine. God he needed it, whatever that was, he wanted it back. The cool dampness returned on his cheeks, against his neck. So refreshing, so different from the savage heat that seemed to be eating away at his skin. But again it lasted for only a moment, drawing out yet another pathetic whine as it left.

“Easy, Arthur. You're safe now,” a voice reassured him. Calm and comforting. He knew that voice. Arthur turned towards the sound, cracking open his eyes despite his body's protest. Could see him now, even through blurred vision.

“Hosea?”

“You waking up a little?” the man smiled at him, “that's good.”

Was it good? He wasn't so sure of that. Arthur moaned, eyes closing as another wave of pain hit him. God damn he hurt. His stomach was twisted so tightly it felt as though he might be sick, and he clenched his teeth, trying to battle against it. Not that it did much good. A whole new wave of pain tore through him as he heaved, a watery bile making it's way forth, choking him almost. Hands were under him, lifting him to one side so he could cough it out. Everything burned...his throat, his nose, even his eyes. His head was pounding something fierce as he gagged again, spitting out little more than bile.

He found himself crying almost, unable to stop the threat of tears as he gagged, apologizing through stuttered breaths. “Sorry...I'm sorry.”

“You're alright,” Hosea didn't seem to mind. Somehow. If someone had gotten sick on him he wouldn't have been so forgiving, he was certain. “I've been covered in worse, trust me.”

Soothing hands rubbed his back, encouraged him to get it all out. Waited until the dry heaves had stopped before laying him back down. Just for a moment. Then his head was being lifted, another whimper as the world seemed to tilt under him dangerously. Something was brought to his mouth, cool liquid seeping through cracked lips, soothing his sore throat, helping to wash away the bitter taste. It helped a little, but still his stomach protested, angry and upset, much like the rest of his body. What the hell had happened?

His mind raced, memories all jumbling together as he tried to reach for something solid, something tangible. Something that made sense. He and Dutch were doing something, that he could rightly remember. What were they doing? They had been riding somewhere, were expecting some sort of trouble. Strange voices, heavily accented...

The memories were fleeting, just on the edge of his mind. Taunting him just out of reach. The cloth was back on his forehead, cool and refreshing, bringing a second of clarity. The accent...they were Irish. O'driscolls. Colm...they were meeting Colm. He shivered, the fear racing through him, followed soon by confusion.

“Hosea?”

“I'm right here, Arthur.”

What was the man doing here? He couldn't be here, it wasn't safe. It was a trap...he coughed, trying to push himself up. They had to go, there was no time...a hand was pushing him back down, scolding him lightly, demanding he stay still.

“Go,” he breathed, trying to get the words out. He had to go; he couldn't fall into this trap.

“Easy there,” Hosea hushed him. He seemed calm. Far too calm for the situation. He wasn't listening, he needed to listen. Dutch...he would listen to Dutch, wouldn't he?

“Dutch?” his voice was ragged, scratchy, breaking out into a cough. Damn that hurt.

“It's alright,” Hosea reassured him, pressing the cloth back against his forehead, holding it there a moment. Oh blissful respite. If only it could last like that forever. He found himself drifting, memories jumbled and almost forgotten. Almost...they came back with a vengeance, a whisper in the back of his mind. A warning. They were dead if they stayed here.

“Not safe,” he breathed, forcing the words out. Trying to sit up again but damn it, he was too weak. Pushed back down like a child, held there with ease.

“You're plenty safe; you and Dutch got out of there, you remember?”

No...no he didn't remember. Colm...he remembered Colm. Remembered being in that cellar. Remembered hanging upside down when he had been beaten. Was that why he hurt so bad? And Dutch...Dutch had been tied up, had been bruised and bleeding as well.

“Dutch?” he whimpered again, trying to search for the man. He wasn't here. Where was he? What had Colm done to him? And why was Hosea just sitting there? “Dutch needs help,” he breathed, closing his eyes.

“Dutch is just fine,” Hosea countered him, pressing the cloth back against his forehead. “Easy now; you need to rest.”

Rest? How could he rest? He needed to move, needed to get out of there. They all did. Didn't they realize? And yet the pounding in his head was getting worse, a throb that ached all the way to his bones. He was so tired...for a moment it felt as all he could do was breathe. He was drifting; could swear he was floating, the ground tilting under him, almost making him dizzy.

“How is he doing?”

A new voice. Arthur cracked open his eyes, vision swimming as he squinted. Doing everything he could to try and focus. Finally he could see him there. Dutch...Dutch was here. And he seemed alright. He went to say something, his words cut off by a cough. Arthur closed his eyes with a whimper, the pain racing through him.

Near him, he heard Hosea sigh. “Rough. Hurtin' pretty good. And this damn fever's got him in a bad way.”

“Infection?”

“No,” he watched Hosea shake his head through blurry eyes. “I don't think so....I don't know. We cleaned the wound the best we could, packed it with herbs. But you saw how bad his shoulder was.”

His shoulder? _White hot pain racing through his body, fierce and angry, on the verge of tears. Trying not to scream._ More memories, unpleasant ones coming back. _“It needs to be done.” Dutch holding the file, digging it into him._ Why? He let out a whimper. Why would Dutch hurt him?

“Dutch?” he couldn't keep the fear out of his voice.

“I'm right here, son” the man reassured him.

“Why?” he managed to get out. Supposed it didn't make much sense, seeing the expression on their faces. Arthur swallowed, closing his eyes, trying to get the words to come out proper, to make them understand.

“Why, what, Arthur?”

“Reckon he's delirious; he hasn't been making much sense,” Hosea explained, wiping him down with the cloth again. “He keeps trying to get up, keeps saying we have to leave. Dutch...I don't think he knows where he's at.”

No...no he didn't know. That's what worried him. He couldn't remember; last thing he knew they were in that cellar. But this wasn't there; and if it wasn't there, then where? His chest was tight, his throat burned, the panic rising and suddenly it felt like he couldn't breathe.

“Jesus, Hosea,” he heard Dutch curse even through his whimpering.

The cloth was on him again, dabbing his face, his neck, resting there a moment. Comforting; it felt so good. Grounding him despite the panic he felt.

“I need you to calm down, Arthur,” Hosea was talking again, his voice breaking through the fog, “come on now, you're okay; you're safe, we got you.”

Was he safe? He had felt anything but, trapped down there in the dark, sore and aching, Colm in his face, making threats, promises of what was to come. He swallowed, shaking his head.

“Colm...trap,” the words still weren't coming; not like he wanted. He almost felt himself cry. There were whispers of memory, toying with his mind, taunting him. Making him all the more confused. Then there were hands on him, someone leaning over him, fingers pressed against each side of his face, talking to him. Urging him to open his eyes.

It took effort; far too much effort. It was a struggle to focus, but he managed, could see Dutch right above him, mere inches from his face. He was still coated in bruises, his face swollen on one side, and the anxiety was easy to see. Yet his voice was calm, steady and comforting.

“You aren't there anymore,” Dutch spoke slowly, firmly. “You got out, remember? You found that file, and got out of your shackles?”

_It had taken effort, far more effort than it should have. He was dizzy, couldn't see straight to save his life, had to hold onto the shackles as he jammed the file into the lock. He had picked locks before, was decent at it, he'd like to think. Still he prayed these damn things would be easy to open. Then he was falling, the wind all but knocked out of him as he hit ground. No time to rest, they had to move, and he pushed himself, ignoring his hurts..._

“We saw to your wound, and got out of that damn cellar?” Dutch was still talking.

“ _Let me do it,” he had tried to plead. Somehow he had convinced himself it would hurt less that way. Dutch hadn't let him, had made it as quick as he possibly could. Could feel the warm blood dripping down his side. Too much blood...the tickle of the flame that was near. “Just do it.” Searing pain flashing before his eyes, stealing his breath._

_A voice then, they had been discovered. Almost...he hadn't even hesitated, had wrenched the man's head, had felt the snap, the weight almost dragging him down. A sharp flair of pain racing through his shoulder. Damn, maybe he shouldn't have done that._

“Hell, you were the one that knew how to use those knives,” he was still talking, his voice still calm and steady.

_Dutch had gone first, had taken the knives. Held them awkwardly in his hands, fidgeting with them. Had sighed, had hesitated, shifting them once more. What the hell was he doing? No way he was going to hit his mark like that._

“ _You ever use one of those before?”_

_He was glad Dutch didn't argue with him. It took more effort than usual, having to pause longer to line up the shot. Charles had insisted and the two had spent several evenings practicing just outside of camp until Arthur had felt more confident in wielding them. He was glad for that now._

“ _You got one more in you, big boy?”_

_He had laughed at the old jibe. Somehow despite the situation they could still find humor._

“You did good,” Dutch praised him, “a real fine job. You got us out of there. Remember?”

Yes...it was coming back to him; he remembered. He closed his eyes, sighing. The faint whispers that had been toying with him were fading, replaced by new certainty. He remembered his horse, remembered Dutch helping him up. Remembered the river...that was about the extent of things. But it certainly was a hell a lot more than he first did. He blinked, meeting Dutch's gaze once more.

The man let out a smile, the relief easy to see on his face. “There you go,” he all but breathed. “You thinking better now?”

Arthur let out a nod, too rough still to try and speak yet. The panic had all but faded, the reassurance he was indeed safe comforting him. Camp...he recognized it now, the sounds, the smells...he was home. But with the fading of the panic came the pain again, and he let out a groan as closed his eyes, trying to fight off another wave of nausea.

“He been sick?” Dutch wasn't speaking to him anymore. The man had let him go and the cloth returned, pressing against his heated flesh once more.

“A few times now,” Hosea confirmed, “I sent John into town to pick up a few things. See if we can get his stomach to settle, help get him over this blasted fever. We get that under control, and then he'll have a fighting chance.”

They were talking still, but the words had started to jumble, no longer making sense. He found himself drifting, catching only snippets of sounds, recognizing a few names. The nausea had abated some and he found himself breathing a little easier, the pain having died down to a dull throb for the moment. His body was numb, heavy almost and he could feel the edges of reality slipping.

But there was something else, something in the back of his mind that was nagging him, pleading for his attention. He wanted so much to ignore it, tried to reassure himself that he was safe, that he was home. They had gotten away from Colm, the others hadn't ridden into the trap, and Micah had not fooled them...Micah...

Despite his better judgment he forced himself to open his eyes again. His vision wavered, the two men above him little more than blurry shapes and he grunted in pain as he tried to force the words out. He was hushed, something along the lines of a reassurance coming out, a hand stroking his forehead. Arthur shook his head, groaning as a cough escaped him, whimpering as he waited for the pain to die down, then tried again.

“Micah?” he was able to get his mouth and throat cooperate that time. Forced the name out with as much vehemence as he could muster, but it came out coarse and broken. He never needed a reason to hate the man, he had already done that since they day they had met. But with the revelation he had been working with Colm, that hate had all but morphed into animosity. Followed by real fear. He would lead Colm here, and then they would be in real trouble.

“I took care of him, don't you worry,” Dutch answered. He was leaning close again, speaking slowly, reassuring him. Arthur felt himself swallow, blinking as he tried to meet the other man's gaze.

“Dead?”

“Of course he's dead,” Dutch reassured him. “You'd think I'd let him live after all that? You know the rules.”

Yes...of course. He had been a fool to think Dutch would just let the man ride away. He nodded, eyes drifting close as he relaxed back into the blankets. He heard the man shift above him, felt a hand on his good shoulder, a gentle squeeze.

“You and me, Arthur? We're going to be okay.”

“That's pretty, Dutch,” he breathed, “real pretty.” At this point in time he wasn't sure if he would ever be okay. Not with how he was currently feeling. Between the fever eating away at him, and the pain that refused to let up, not to mention his arm...he had seen what infection could do, had watched it in Saint Denis. The blood, the smell, the snapping of bones as the saw worked through. A whimper escaped him, grimacing at the thought. Why did he have to think of that now?

“No more fussing now,” Dutch was talking in his ear, a hand back on his forehead. “You get some rest, beat this fever and get well. I need you strong, son.”

“If you say so, Dutch,” he all but breathed out. It was easier said than done, but he would try. Damn it, would he ever try...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Arthur...surely his time healing after Colm hadn't been pleasant, and I hope I caught some of that here. There's a couple more chapters left after this one, and the story will be wrapped up. Let me know if you are enjoying it so far :)


	7. Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter after this, just wrapping up some lose ends and making it all nice and pretty. Bit of a long chapter, so enjoy :)

* * *

God almighty it had been a rough night. He had spent some time with Dutch first, had gotten a short rendition of what had happened before he encouraged the man to get some rest. All the while, Grimshaw and Swanson had tended to Arthur, had managed to get him into clean clothes, and were working on his shoulder when he joined them. Hosea had helped, doing his best to ensure it was cleaned and dressed, having some knowledge of the care required after all these years of being on the run.

Still, it was bad. A right ugly wound, gnarled and scarred, blood and pus still leaking from the edges. If not done right, sepsis would set in, could very well take the man's arm, or even his life if they were not careful. But he seemed to be alright then. Just hurting and exhausted. Nothing some rest wouldn't cure. Hosea had chased the two off, opting to keep watch over the man that was nearly a son to him.

Then Arthur's condition had deteriorated, and fast. His fever had morphed from a minor nuisance to a raging inferno in a matter of hours. The man had gone from a semi-lucid state to one of delirium, half of what he was trying to say not making a lick of sense. The words were fueled by more than just the fire that seemed to be devouring him; no, there was fear there was well, driven no doubt by the horrors he had just endured. And the pain...it nearly broke Hosea's heart.

It was all he could do to try and keep the fever at bay. A constant ritual of wetting him down with a cloth, pressing it against his forehead, his cheeks, down on his neck. Then easing him up, encouraging him to drink some water, only for it to last a short time before he threw it all back up. Then it was back to the rag, cleaning the sick off of him, wetting his skin down, desperately trying to get a handle on this viscous beast that was trying to rip him apart from the inside.

Hosea had done his best to keep his voice calm and steady, talking to Arthur throughout the whole ordeal, hoping his voice alone would be enough to soothe and calm the man's desperate cries. But nothing seemed to be working; he was trapped in some hellish delusion that was seemingly fueled further by the fever.

Eventually he had sent John out to town despite the god awful early hour, hoping that he could find something that would help. Had taken the time to check the man's shoulder, if only to reassure himself that gangrene wasn't setting in. He had cleaned it, gotten it wrapped back up just fine. But still the fever persisted, dark and angry, unrelenting. Hosea kept talking to him, kept hoping that Arthur could hear him. Then it seemed to be working.

Arthur seemed to be waking, seemed to be more coherent. Had looked his way, bluish green eyes that were so fogged in pain and far too unfocused to be natural blinking up at him. He had even said his name a couple of times, had called out to him, had seemingly tried to converse. Yet none of it made sense, and the delusions only seemed to worsen, became more physical as Arthur all but tried to crawl out of bed, his breath short and heavy as he almost gasped for air.

He had tried to calm Arthur, to reassure him, but it seemed to fall on deaf ears. Hosea was thoroughly exhausted by this point, the aches settling deep in his bones, a right old headache pounding behind his eyes, fingers aching as he wrung the cloth out once more. This god damn fever seemed hellbent on taking Arthur from this world, intending to drown him in all that fear and suffering, and Hosea would be damned if he just let it happen.

So he refused to let himself stop, had kept up with the motions that had become so familiar over the past few hours, kept talking even though his throat felt as though it was turning raw. Still it wasn't enough; nothing was working. Then Dutch had come.

The man had accomplished in minutes what he could not in hours. Had all but pinned the man down, hands on either side of his face, had spoken firmly, recanting all that had transpired, attempt to prove that he was indeed safe. And slowly...slowly, he had broken through the barrier that was there. The fogginess in his eyes had dissipated, and for the smallest moment the clarity had returned, and he seemed to understand then that he was indeed safe. The tension had gone, and Arthur had relaxed back into the bed. Still burning with fever, still in pain, but no longer caught in the throes of a panic.

He had even tried to carry a bit of conversation, had wondered after Micah, the fear and anger evident in his voice. Dutch had reassured him, and then had all but scolded him, tucking him in as though he was a child, all but demanding he go to sleep. Arthur was resting now, perhaps not as soundly as Hosea would have preferred, but it was far better than what he had been previously.

Dutch had let out a sigh then, pulling up a chair, all but collapsing into it. The man still looked exhausted, the weariness evident on his face. He had managed to dress himself, but overall he was still a mess, having not groomed himself since his return, his hair wild and unkempt. A sure sign he was not himself; Dutch always prided himself on appearances, had always made the attempt to smarten himself up even when he was under the weather. So seeing him like this now was a testament to his true disposition.

“You should get some more rest,” Hosea prompted him. It was early still, the man couldn't have slept for more than a hour or so. Yet Dutch waved him off, slouched over in his chair, rubbing his head with his other hand.

“I'll be fine, Hosea.”

“You look like death warmed over,” he pushed some more.

“And you don't?” Dutch wondered, meeting his gaze. “Exactly how much sleep have you gotten?”

None. He hadn't gotten any, not since the pair had failed to come back from the supposed parlay. Most of the camp had been the same way. On edge, waiting as day turned into night, and then had stretched through another day. Some of them had managed to get some rest, stealing away a few hours here and there, but not him. He wouldn't deny that he was tired, but there was no way he was going to leave Arthur now, not like this. Hosea let out a sigh, shaking his head.

“Yeah, well at least I don't look like I've gone and lost a fight.”

“How true that is,” Dutch agreed, prodding gingerly at the bruises on his face. “What a sad pair we make.”

“You and me?” He wondered. “Or you and Arthur?”

He chuckled. “All three of us I guess.” He glanced over to where Arthur lay, simply watching the man. He was sweating still, a slight tremor shaking his frame, the fever still angry and fierce. Where the hell was John? Hosea wet the rag again, reaching out to place it on the man's forehead.

“I was a god damn fool,” Dutch sighed. He had said that already, more than once. He must be feeling the guilt something awful to bring it up so repeatedly. After all, Dutch had pride, a lot of pride, and Hosea knew how tough it was for the man to admit any mistakes, let alone so repeatedly. “I am so sorry, Hosea.”

“While I appreciate your confession, I'm not the one you need to be apologizing to,” Hosea pointed out. After all, Arthur was the one paying the price for all of this mess.

“I know,” Dutch agreed. “He will make it through this. He's strong. Always has been.”

That he had been. Arthur was never one to be knocked down for long. But his wounds this time were far more grievous than previous incidents, and this fever was doing him no favors. Hosea didn't mention that, already knew that Dutch was struggling with things as they were. The last thing he needed was to give the man any reason to doubt. Hosea grabbed the cloth from the man's head, wiping away the sweat that was lingering there.

“I spoke with Pearson,” Dutch said just then.

“Oh?” he glanced back at the man. “He still alive?”

“Yes,” Dutch exasperated, “he's still alive. Told me that he's been going to the saloon every few days, but hadn't seen those O'driscolls until that last time. Said it was weird, almost like they were waiting for him. They were the ones who brought up the parley, not him.”

Pearson had been fraught with panic since their disappearance. Had blamed himself for everything; Micah had been no help there, had laid the blame on him thickly like sap on a tree. He had been all too eager to make that man a scapegoat. Far too eager, Hosea realized as he thought it over.

“You think Micah told them he'd be there?”

“I'm thinking that Micah knew I wouldn't listen to just him” Dutch admitted, “that I'd only agree if it came from someone that's been running with us longer.”

“Why Pearson, then?” Hosea wondered. Pearson had been with them for a few years now, true, but he wasn't much a man of action despite his talk. Surely hearing it from someone else would have been more convincing?

“And why not him?” Dutch wondered, shrugging his shoulders. “Neither you nor I would have entertained the idea. And Arthur and John? Well, our boys would have beaten them down, chased them off before they even managed to get a word out. They know the history, Hosea, they know what happened.”

Wasn't that the truth? All of that bad blood, the business of Colm's brother, of Annabel, the entire feud that stretched between them. Yes, there was no way in hell that they would ever listen long enough to entertain the idea. Pearson, on the other hand, wasn't aware of the past. The man only knew that they were rivals. Yes, he supposed it made sense.

“So what now?” Hosea wondered. “Where do we go from here?”

He watched as Dutch shrugged. “We get Arthur better. Get him back on his feet.”

“After that,” Hosea clarified. Dutch was no idiot, the man knew what he was asking after.

“I don't know, Hosea,” he admitted after a moment. “These two families...we've done a lot of work with them.”

“That we have,” Hosea agreed. They had stolen horses, burned down tobacco fields, distributed moonshine, had gotten into gunfights...they had done everything here except lay low. It wouldn't be long before the law caught up with them. He knew the Pinkertons were already on their trail; Arthur had told them that much already.

The group was being funded by Cornwall, and he was reminded back to the day up the Grizzles when he had all but pleaded and begged for Dutch to reconsider robbing that train. Sure, they had made some decent money off the bonds, but it hadn't been worth all the trouble it had brought along.

Then they were still dealing with Colm. The possibility that the man may know where they were was not a comforting feeling. Bill and Javier had done some scouting, hadn't found much of anything. Still they, along with several other of the boys were keeping watch, just in case.

And last, but not least, they had these new folk, Lemoyne Raiders they called themselves, all but causing them grief. They had already had numerous run-ins with them, he and Arthur had fled from the local saloon after a dispute over moonshine, and several of the boys had reported having tussles with them on more than one occasion. It was not an ideal situation, and ultimately, Hosea was starting to wonder if all this fuss was even worth any reward at all.

“Do you think there's any gold?” Dutch wondered.

That was the critical question. It had sounded legit, back when they first arrived. Yet they hadn't received anything but reassurances for all their efforts. And the more time that passed, the less certain he was that there was anything to begin with. Plus the fact that Rhodes was not that big of a town left him feeling that their scheme would be figured out sooner, rather than later. They truly were starting to push their luck if he was being honest. But Dutch hadn't wanted to listen to rationale as of late, it seemed.

“I don't know,” he sighed, finally answering Dutch's question. He dunked the rag once more wringing it out with a slight grimace, the ache in his hands all too apparent. “If there is, I'm beginning to think we won't see any of it.”

For a time Dutch was quiet, the silence between them broken up by the heavy breaths, the soft whines and groans coming from Arthur who was still restless. Hosea kept his focus on wiping him down, trying to cool his heated skin. Normally he agreed with Dutch's sentiment that revenge was a fool's game, but seeing his boy like this was starting to change his view on that aspect.

“I think it's about high time we moved on from here,” Dutch broke the silence. Hosea found himself frowning, turning back towards him.

“As much as I would normally agree with you, I'd rather not be moving Arthur unless it's necessary.”

They would if they must. They had done it before with Davey, and with John. Had dragged their prone forms into the back of a wagon, had done their best to keep them in the land of the living. Travel was difficult enough, and once you started to add injuries in the mix, it was almost downright impossible. John had manage to pull through, but Davey had not been as lucky.

“I did not intend to start packing now,” Dutch chastised him. “But we need to make plans for the future, Hosea.”

“You still thinking of a tropical paradise?” Hosea wondered. Dutch had brought it up more than once, had prodded him for his thoughts to the matter. Hosea had told him it was ludicrous, an absolute folly. Perhaps not those words exactly, but close enough. What the hell did they know about sea travel? About harvesting mangoes on an island? How the hell were they even supposed to get there? Dutch had shrugged when he had asked that once, had merely suggested getting a boat. What kind of boat would they find that would be willing to take twenty people out to the middle of nowhere? Still, he had been persistent it was a good idea, and heavens help them all, when Dutch had an idea there was little that could persuade him otherwise.

“Eventually, perhaps,” Dutch answered him quietly. “It's not something we can afford to do at the moment. I figured south; find a place near Saint Denis.”

“Near the city?”

“The eight wonder of the world,” the man chuckled, shaking his head. “We need to see what all the fuss is about.”

“And here I thought we were trying to get away from the civilized world,” Hosea retorted. What in the world was going through the man's mind?

“It's a big city, Hosea,” Dutch pointed out. “Lots of opportunity to be had. We need money, we got a lot of folk counting on us.”

“And that big of a city means we have a lot more eyes watching us. You'd just be asking for trouble.”

“So what do you propose that we do?” Dutch was getting agitated now. Could tell by his voice, but more importantly could see it in his posture. The man was tense, his jaw set tight, and his eyes had narrowed. Hosea let out a sigh, dropping the cloth back into the bucket of water.

“You really want my opinion on this?”

“I'm asking you, am I not?”

“You know what I want, Dutch.”

The man sighed, leaning back in the chair. “Going back west isn't feasible, Hosea,” the man all but scolded him.

“Why not?” it was a hell of a lot more practical than his absurd plan to run off to Tahiti, or wherever the hell he kept dreaming of.

“Blackwater is a death sentence,” Dutch started, “and we don't have that kind of money to make it that far. I won't be dragging these people across multiple states, leaving them to starve, all the while going into an area where they'd be shot dead on sight. I won't.”

“There's a hell of a lot more out west than Blackwater, and you know it Dutch,” he countered.

“And I suppose the law will just let us saunter through unhindered. Do you know how much attention a group as large as ours attracts?”

He was about to respond, to argue his own point, stopping only at the new voice. One that was weak and rough, words quiet and almost missed.

“If you two are going to fight, you can at least go to your own tent.”

“Oh, I'm sorry Arthur,” Hosea turned back to watch him. The man was breathing heavy, letting out a groan as he opened his eyes. Here they were, all but demanding he get some rest, and the two of them were carrying on like a pair of old fools not three feet from where he was sleeping.

“How are you doing, son?” Dutch wondered, his own voice had changed. Softer, full of concern, the earlier anger gone.

“Hurt,” Arthur barely breathed the word. “Everything hurts.”

“I know,” Hosea sympathized. He reached out, hand resting on his forehead a moment, letting out a sigh shortly after. Damn he was still warm. At least he was coherent this time. “We're working on getting you better. I sent John to get a few things from town that should help you out here. You just hang in there until he gets back, alright?”

He heard the man laugh, more of a scoff, “Yeah? Won't hold my breath. He weren't the right person for that.”

“Well, he must be feeling better if he's ragging on John,” Dutch answered dryly.

“Come on Dutch," Arthur breathed, his voice raspy. "Fool's probably gone and gotten himself in some sort of trouble, and someone's gonna have to go out after him. I ain't gonna do it.”

“What you're going to do is go back to sleep,” Hosea chided him. The last thing they needed right now was for him to get all worked up over some petty indifference. “You can discuss your sentiments with John later; right now you need to rest.”

* * *

It took some prompting and a bit of coaxing, but between him and Dutch they were able to get him back to sleep. The fever was down a little, not nearly as much as he wanted, but it seemed to be going in the right direction. Hosea leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh on his lips. Heaven help him was he ever exhausted. Despite his wants, he might actually take his leave to get some rest himself.

“You really think we should head west?”

He turned, meeting Dutch's gaze. His voice had been calm, and there was no hint of malice in the man's eyes. Was he dreaming, or was Dutch actually willing to listen to him for once? Hosea cleared his throat, nodding, voice quiet as he answered. All they needed was to launch into another argument and wake Arthur again.

“It's a big country, Dutch. A lot of land for us to get lost in.”

“True as that may be, I just don't see a reality in which all of us make it there. You know this group will attract attention...not to mention we'll need to hit something big to get the money. The bank, perhaps? Small town here, won't be much law around.”

“We don't have to go as a big group, you know,” Hosea prompted. The look on the man's face was one of shock, and for a moment he was silent. Apparently he had rendered the man speechless.

“You want to...break our family up?” Dutch finally found his voice, barely a whisper.

“Not for long,” Hosea clarified. How Dutch could ever assume that he would be willing to just walk away from them all was incredible in itself. “But several small groups, spread out over the days will draw far less attention.”

“There is wisdom in that, I suppose,” Dutch agreed.

“We have five wagons,” Hosea continued, using the opportunity Dutch was affording him to elaborate on his plan. “So five groups. Split them up so we have a couple of the boys with some of the women, help keep them safe. We each leave a few days apart, agree to meet up where ever we decide.”

“And how do you propose we prepare for this journey? We'll need food, and supplies, and that takes money, Hosea. Money that we don't have.”

“We have enough money to stock up on supplies,” Hosea pointed out, “And enough of the boys know how to hunt; they'll just have to get out there and actually bring something home. We'll have to forgo some luxuries, but we'll survive. I'm not saying it'll be pleasant, but we can manage. We've certainly been through worse, after all.”

“And once we get to wherever we are going, what are we going to do for money then? We cannot just live on hopes and dreams no matter how delightful that sounds.”

“The Blackwater money,” Hosea prompted. It was something that was in the back of his mind for a while. Despite how messy things had been, he knew the score had been big. Knew that Dutch had left it well hidden. Yet, if any of them happened to wander back there, it would be a death sentence. It was something Dutch pointed out all too quickly.

“Send in Sadie.”

“Mrs. Adler?” Dutch raised an eyebrow. “I want that money as much as you, old friend, but I refuse to place her in that sort of danger.”

“She's the only one among us who wasn't involved Dutch. They won't recognize her; it'll work.”

He was quiet for a moment, pondering it over. Then he shook his head. “We cannot ask that of her. She has been through some terrible times, and I do not wish to risk her any further.”

“She was out riding the trails with Charles, looking for the pair of you,” Hosea told him just then. “When she heard the O'driscoll boys were involved there was nothing able to hold her back. All fire and spit she was. She's been itching to get out there and prove herself. She will be more than willing to do this. It's that, or stir up trouble in another town, bring even more heat down on us, start this whole damn process over again.”

“We cannot hide forever, Hosea,” Dutch answered sadly. “We will always be fighting; it's what we do.”

“I'm getting old, Dutch,” Hosea reminded him. “I won't always be here, and I want to know people are safe. That they're not ending up like...” he trailed off, unable to finish, settling for motioning instead towards where Arthur slept.

“No one will,” Dutch promised, but it sounded so empty and hollow. How many times had Dutch said that no one was going to die, and yet how many had they already lost? Hosea shook his head, unsure of where they stood. He had tried, had the faintest bit of hope that Dutch might be reasoned with. But he was often an unreasonable man.

“Just...humor me, and think about what I said.”

“I won't make any promises, Hosea,” Dutch warned him. The man let out a sigh, stretching as he moved to his feet. “I think...I think I need to lay down for a bit. My head is hurting something awful. Will you...?”

“I'll be fine, Dutch,” Hosea nodded back towards him, trying to be as reassuring as he could. He knew the man needed rest, for more than him. He would take his own as soon as he knew Arthur would be well. Still, he felt a bit better, perhaps a lot of that coming from the discussion they just had held. It wasn't anything grand, but he hoped something beneficial would come from it in the end.

At the very least, he had tried.


	8. Ending

Consciousness came slowly, leaving him feeling like he was stumbling through a fog. He saw the faintest whispers of light toying with him beyond closed eyes, could hear the murmur of sound, a mixture of noise that was all jumbled together. Nothing distinct, nothing that made sense, but there all the same.

Memories, both dark and comforting swirled together in his mind. He could remember the cellar, could remember Dutch, remembered Hosea, talking to him, reassuring him. It all seemed so long ago, so far away, as though it had been a dream and nothing more. But the ache in his body told him otherwise, told him that it was all real. And on top of the pain, was something more alarming. Because he had tried to shift, had tried to move, only to find out that he couldn't. He couldn't move his arm. And it wasn't long before the panic kicked in.

He struggled, trying to force himself up. Trying to get free of whatever confines that had him. Was he a prisoner again? Had Colm found them, taken them all captive? Were they being handed over to the law? The thoughts raced through his mind, fierce and wicked, each one worse than the last. His chest hurt, his lungs desperate for air.

“Calm down, Arthur!”

The voice...he knew that voice. It was sharp, angry and bitter. The smallest hint of alarm there, but far overshadowed by everything else. He swallowed, somehow managed to take a breath, and all but collapsed back into the bed.

“You're okay, _Jesus_ ,” the last word was almost muttered.

It took a moment and several deep breaths before he found his voice. It was raspy, his throat sore as he answered.

“Mrs Adler. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He was in his tent. There was no Colm, there was no law...he was fine, just as she said. Then why did his chest feel so tight? And why couldn't he move his arm?

“Well, somebody's gotta keep an eye on you. If I knew you was gonna kick up such a fuss, I wouldn't have agreed.”

He barely heard her, more focused on opening his eyes and on lifting his head. His vision swayed, his head felt funny, heavy and strange, but he managed. He was naked from the waist up, his one arm cradled against his chest, all but smothered by a bandage that wound around his chest several times, pinning the limb in place.

“What in the hell is this?” he reached up with his other arm, fingers brushing against the cloth. No wonder he couldn't move the damn thing. They had him wrapped up so tight he could hardly breathe.

“Hosea's idea,” Sadie answered with a shrug. “You kept pulling your wound open. Guess he got tired of cleaning up all that blood.”

He was still trying to catch his breath. Still trying to calm his racing heart. He let his head sink back into the pillow, closing his eyes. He didn't even remember bleeding. Didn't remember his arm being wrapped. Seemed to be a lot he wasn't remembering. And how much time had gone by?

“How long have I been down?” he finally was calm enough to get the words out, the question burning on his mind.

“About three days now,” she answered.

Three days? No way that could be right. He lifted his head, looking at her. “I ain't been down no three days.”  
  


“Well, you certainly ain't been up,” she snapped at him harshly.

He let out a frustrated sigh, dropping his head once more. Three god damn days? What the hell? There was shit that had to be done; he couldn't be holed up here for that long. Already he could imagine the list of chores, the lack of supplies, and Dutch...well Dutch was probably losing his ever-loving mind knowing him.

“You was pretty rough for a while,” Sadie went on after a moment, a little calmer now. “Got better once Marston finally got his worthless ass back with some medicine.”

“Oh, he finally make it back?” he wondered mildly. He could vaguely remember Hosea saying something about that. If he remembered correctly, he had also said something snide about. Couldn't really remember, but he probably owed the man an apology for that.

“Yeah, guess the fool went clear to Saint Denis, way down south. Big ol' place, so he says. Got into some trouble, apparently.”  
  


“That boy is always getting into trouble,” Arthur muttered.

“Oh, you'll like this one; says he got robbed.”

“Well...Marston ain't the smartest fella,” Arthur drawled, the smallest hint of amusement there. Usually they were the ones doing the robbing. It was shameful when it happened the other way around. But happen it did. They usually tried to not talk about it.

“By a bunch of children,” Sadie added slyly.

“Children?” Arthur let out a laugh. Leave it to Marston. Had it been anyone else he wouldn't have believed it. But John was enough of a fool that it seemed plausible.

“You uh...you wanna try and sit up?” she asked just then, her voice softened by concern. Arthur swallowed, taking a moment before he nodded.

“Sure...I think I can manage that.”

He was mostly able to pull himself up, Sadie helping him along, adjusting the pillows so he was able to lean back comfortably. At least as comfortable as he could be. He still ached, most his body still sore, but it was a dull pain, something that lingered only at the edges. Where the pain was the worst was his shoulder, deep set and fiery. His fingers picked at the bandage mindlessly, trying to flex his shoulder under all the bindings.

“Stop messin' with that, will ya?” she scolded him as she sat back down.

“I don't like it,” he snapped, irritated now. He knew he shouldn't be messing with it, but he rather disliked the fact she was trying to tell him what to do.

“Well it's about the only thing that's keeping your arm from falling off.”

“What you mean?” it had taken him a moment to find his voice, words angry, almost drowned out by the fear that was lingering in his chest. He knew the injury had been bad, knew the gunshot had done a fair amount of damage, and even though the thought had lingered in the back of his mind, he hadn't been ready to face the possibility.

“Don't give me that tone,” she chastised him, arms crossed over her chest. “I ain't the one who's done any of this to you, so don't go jawing on me, you hear?”

“Look, lady,” he ground out, knowing how much that annoyed her, “Either tell me straight, or get someone in here that will. I ain't playing games.”

“It's bad, alright?” She answered, her tone softening a little, “But Hosea reckons that if we keep on top of it, and you don't go and do something stupid...it'll heal just fine.”

He closed his eyes, taking in a breath as the relief washed over him. That was a better outcome than he had been hoping for. There had a been a moment, perhaps more than one, where he had waited for the inevitable horrid truth to sock him in the gut. But he trusted Hosea, had known the man for years, and despite the fact he was a conman spouting ridiculous stories more often than not, Arthur knew the man would never lie to him.

“So, how long am I supposed to stay trussed up like this?” He already didn't like it, the restriction leaving him on the verge of panic. He would put up with it, seeing as he little other choice, but he also intended to be free of it as soon as he could.

“Until you heal,” she shrugged, a sly smile on her face, “or until it falls off. Whatever happens first.”

“You are really something else, you know that?”

The taunt only made her laugh, one foot resting on the side of his bed as she leaned forward. “Well, you best get used to it, cause we're traveling buddies.”  
  


“What?” He frowned, watching her. “We leaving this place?”

“Some of them left this morning” she shrugged, “the rest are still packing, or waiting to pack, I guess. Hosea and Charles are gonna come with us; leave a little later this week. They wanna give you a chance to get some of your strength back.”

They were splitting up? That made little sense. There was safety in numbers, and Dutch had ever been adamant about sticking together. Now they were intentionally breaking off? For what reason? He asked her a much, watching as she shrugged once more.

“They reckon it's the safest way, seeing as we going back west.”

“West?” it surprised him. He wouldn't complain; it just felt so strange. He had been aching to go back west for years now, to get back out on the open plains, to breath fresh air that wasn't clouded by the advancement of modern society. But each time he had asked, he was met with a simple 'now is not the time' speech from Dutch, followed quickly by a barrage of 'have faith' and 'trust me' proses that he could now recite in his sleep. So the fact they were headed that way now left him a little more than befuddled. This was all a lot to take in at once, and he let out a sigh, closing his eyes.

“You doing okay?” she sounded worried. He managed a nod, looking her way, gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

“I'll be just fine; don't you worry none.”

She nodded, seemed to believe him. Then cleared her throat, hesitation in her voice. “Anything I can do for you?

He let out a sigh, mulling it over in his head. How he hated having to rely on others, but given how he currently felt, he knew there wasn't much other option.

“I reckon I might try and get up,” he finally said, “stretch my legs a little. Gotten awfully sore just laying here.”

Weren't that the truth. And not just sore, but stiff as well, pausing as he swung his legs over the side of his cot, one hand running over the muscles in his legs as though that would help work the kinks out of them. With Sadie's help he managed to get a shirt on, the sleeve hanging loosely in eerie resemblance to the veteran he had seen back in Valentine. It took a few terrifying seconds for him to reassure himself that his arm was still there, despite the initial appearance.

Standing was a bit easier, but he had to pause again, leaning against her, Sadie shouldering his weight surprisingly well as he waited for the world to stop spinning. Then he nodded, the feeling passing as he stumbled out into the daylight. Camp was half torn down, one of the wagons already missing, another one in the process of being packed. He could hear bits of conversation floating through the air, words intermixed with laughs and playful jibes resulting in a friendly ambiance.

He could see Grimshaw over with Pearson, the two seemingly working on the stew over near his wagon. Sean and Karen were over near the fire, locked deep in conversation, a bottle of beer in each hand. Lenny, Uncle and John were over at the table, a pile of chips in the center as they played poker. And Dutch and Hosea were out in front of Dutch's tent, quietly conversing, their heads down. Just seeing everything felt so surreal, the calmness strange given the violent circumstances that he had just endured. Almost like it was nothing more than just a dream. The burning pain in his shoulder was the only thing that convinced him otherwise.

Still, he did little more but stand there, taking everything in. Sadie stood to one side, ready to offer help if needed but not forcing it on him, something he greatly appreciated. And for one blessed moment, no one noticed he had emerged from his tent. Another thing he was grateful for. Soon enough they would notice, and the bombarding would commence, an orchestra of questions and inquiries to his well being. If only he could be like Dutch and give a rousing speech, let everyone know at once so that he didn't have to resort to becoming a broken record. Life could never be that simple.

Oddly enough it was Dutch who saw him first. He had lifted his head, had been about to respond to something Hosea had said, but it was lost as the man smiled, waving him over. Arthur returned with a meek wave on his own, bidding farewell to Sadie as he made his way over. He kept his head down as he shuffled over towards the tent with slow, well-placed steps. He still felt a little dizzy, and horribly weak, like he might topple over at any given moment. But as long as he kept it slow, he figured he wouldn't make too big of a fool of himself.

“It is good to see you up,” Dutch nodded to him as he drew near, the relief in his voice easily noted. There were bruises on the man's face still, having turned from a bluish hue to a yellowish one as they slowly healed, faint reminders of what he had gone through. “How are you feeling, son?”

“Like I done got run over by a horse,” he offered. It wasn't too far from the truth; his whole chest felt battered, and suspected that he was sporting some rather choice bruises underneath the bandages. Yet despite the situation he could feel the mirth all but boiling inside him, perhaps a mixture of relief and contentment of just being amongst family, and he couldn't help but exaggerate.

“Actually, make that a horse and a cart,” he started, only to cut himself off, “Wait no...make that a horse, pulling a cart... and then a second horse.”

“I see you still have your sarcasm,” Dutch shook his head as he stood, but there was a small smile on his face. He indicated to the recently vacated seat, nearly steering him to sit. Arthur didn't put up much of a resistance. He hadn't been up long, hadn't done anything noteworthy, and yet he was still tired. That was to be a given, he supposed.

“Gonna take more than a thrashing from Colm to beat that out of me,” he pointed out.

“Don't we know it,” Hosea agreed, “Dutch and I sure have been trying for the past twenty odd years to straighten you up, but some things just can't be fixed.”

“Didn't realize I was broken, old man.”

“Like an old watch that runs slow,” he retorted, “At least a slow watch has the benefit of having two working arms.”

He might have been offend had anyone else said that. But he had known Hosea for so long, and this sort of banter was normal for the pair of them. Even so he heard Dutch scoff, reprimanding the man for the nature of the jibe. Arthur couldn't help but laugh.

“You got me there,” he shook his head. “How much you think a half-broken watch goes for these days?”

“Ah, wouldn't trade you in for the world,” Hosea smiled at him, “wouldn't find anyone else to take your place. Ain't that right, Dutch?”

“Find someone as angry, sour and cynical as Arthur here? I don't think that's possible,” Dutch agreed.

“Lord,” Arthur groaned, leaning forward. “I think I might just go back to bed if you two keep this nonsense up.”

“It's not nonsense,” Dutch almost sounded as though he was scolding him. “This family...each other, this is all we have. And well, you gave us quite the scare for a while.”

God he hated it when Dutch got serious like this. Made him feel all but ten inches tall, nothing more than a sapling struggling for a glimpse of sun within his looming shadow. He wasn't much of an emotional man, didn't like to dwell on the affections and sentiments of life, preferred instead to brush off the awkward situations with a laugh or even anger. Anger he could handle well, could hide behind, mask his feelings. Talking about it left him feeling weak, vulnerable. Two feelings he rather disliked.

“How's the shoulder?” Hosea this time, steering the conversation back to something more pragmatic.

Arthur managed a shrug. “Alright, I guess.”

“Pain's not too bad?”

“Not at the moment,” he answered truthfully. It was throbbing, but only just, a whisper of what he had felt before. He could handle that for now, had always handled his pain decently enough. Arthur had learned at an early age how to be tough, because life sure as hell wouldn't take pity on him just cause he was hurting.

“Don't much like being wrapped up though,” he added, fingers reaching up to touch the bandage through the opening of his shirt. He could wriggle his fingers, but that was about the extent of it.

“Well, I reckon we can take that off,” Hosea encouraged him. The mere suggestion had him elated.

“Really?”

Sadie had told him earlier that it was going to stay on until he was healed, a prognosis he understood, but wasn't too entirely pleased with. Yet if Hosea was offering to remove it, he certainly wasn't going to argue.

“You thrashed something good these past few nights,” Hosea nodded towards him, “Think you were caught up in some awful nightmares. I didn't want you to hurt yourself more. But you're up now, and as long as you don't over do it, I don't see the harm in taking it off.”

He didn't remember any of it. The knowledge that the past few days were all but gone terrified him a little. How much had happened? How many people had seen and heard him act like a fool? He swallowed, trying to tap down the unease. How much hell had he given John for his slow recovery from the wolves? And yet the man had never made a fool of himself while he was down with fever. Arthur tried to remind himself that he had no control over his actions these past days, but it did little too comfort him.

“We can head inside,” Hosea suggested after a moment of silence. Arthur watched as the man gestured over his shoulder, following his gaze back to his own tent. He shook his head. He had spent more than enough time there.

“Here's just fine.”

Hosea nodded, seemed to understand. “Get your shirt off then.”

He worked at the buttons, pulling them free and didn't complain as Dutch helped him. Hosea had pushed himself up, only to kneel by him, fingers finding the end of the bandage and began to work them off.

“Heard that we're heading west?” Arthur broke the silence, needing something to distract him.

“That is the plan,” Dutch confirmed, lighting his pipe. “Figure out by Armadillo; find some land, start a ranch.”

“I've heard that before,” he was still skeptical. He winced as the last of the bandages were pulled free, his arm suddenly feeling a lot heavier than he remembered. It was all he could do to stop the limb from simply falling to his side. He risked a glance down, taking in his shoulder, his battered chest that was littered in bruises of various colors. Damn, no wonder he had hurt...

“It's for certain now,” Dutch interrupted his thoughts, and Arthur braced for the barrage of faith and trust the man so loved. But he didn't, his voice still calm as he continued. “We have it all worked out, don't you worry none.”

Hosea had taken his arm, had encouraged him to stretch it out. He did with some difficultly, shocked at how weak and listless it seemed. With some direction he was able to flex his hand, curl his fingers into a fist, albeit a feeble one. Was it ever going to get better?

There was still a bandage around his shoulder, and he could see the faint tinge of red there, the indication he had indeed been bleeding. It looked so simple, just a bit of cloth, but underneath he knew was a large gaping hole, the flesh all but blasted away while the rest had been burned. Arthur rubbed his face with his good hand as he turned away, as though trying to banish the image from his head.

“Got a bit of damage there,” Hosea told him as he sat back down his his chair. Wasn't that the understatement of the century? “It'll get better.”

“Here's hoping,” he managed to grumble.

“Have some faith, son,” Dutch encouraged, “It will be fine.”

“As long as you don't go and do something stupid,” Hosea pointed out, sounding so much like Sadie. Or perhaps it was the other way around.. He met the man's gaze with an amused expression of his own. What, was everyone convinced he was bound to make things worse? Hosea must have known what he was thinking, because the man answered before he could get a word out.

“Don't think for one minute that you can fool us. Dutch and I both know you too well; what with you trying to take off and keep yourself busy with work. I won't stand for it; you'll hurt yourself all the more and then you'll be even more intolerable to deal with.”

Arthur found himself laughing. That was perhaps the most tenacious speech the man had ever given. Usually it was Dutch who gave the lectures, whereas Hosea offered sound advice and encouragement. He watched the man scowl and roll his eyes.

“Well, I'm glad you find it so amusing.”

“Hosea, I won't go causing no trouble,” he tried to reassure the man. Trouble was the last thing he was looking for. He glanced up at Dutch as a hand fell on his good shoulder with an encouraging squeeze.

“Trouble isn't the only thing that worries us,” the man's voice was firm, indicating the seriousness behind his words. “You need to rest, and let that arm heal. I don't want to see you busying yourself with chores, you hear? Let the others take care of what needs taking care of, and you take care of yourself. You can do that for me?”

“Sure Dutch,” he nodded. There was truth behind what he said, but he wasn't comfortable with the idea. Of sitting around and watching others work. It was unnatural. He cleared his throat, attempting to change the conversation.

“So...when we all leaving?”

“I'll pull out of here tomorrow with John, Mrs Roberts and Miss O'shea,” Dutch answered, taking another puff on his pipe. “Hosea and I figured out the groups that will leave next, and the two of you will leave with Mrs Adler and Mr. Smith at the end of the week, provided you're well enough to travel.”

He would be, no doubt about that. At least on the road he wouldn't feel so useless. Until then he would just have to take it easy, let himself rest and heal, like Dutch had said. That couldn't be too hard, right?

“It'll all be fine, Arthur,” Dutch continued, that all too familiar spark in his eye. “A few weeks from now we'll be starting our new life, have a place to call our own, and all will be well. We'll be home.”

Home...wasn't that an odd concept. He had been on the run for so long he hadn't the faintest notion of what home could even be. Yet as he sat there between to the two men and looked around, watching the camp and it's inhabitants jaunt around, he realized that he already was home. This strange family that had started out with the three of them only to grow into this large group of miscreants. And where ever they went, as long as they were safe and together, then that was enough for him. So he let a contented sigh, nodding towards him.

“Alright. Let's go home.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And a sappy ending, I know...I'm not the best at finding ways to end stories. 
> 
> So you can decide for yourself how this ends, I went slightly more AU than I originally intended, but I figured they all deserved a little bit of happiness after everything they've been through right? And no Micah, what could be better? (Sorry in advance to those of you who might like him). 
> 
> At any rate, thank you to all my readers, all my reviewers for your time and for sharing your thoughts. Let me know what you thought overall, and I hope you enjoyed reading :)
> 
> Until the next story!


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